


Killing Tony

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Killing Eve (TV 2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Assassination, Brad Davis/Peter Parker, Daddy Issues, Dark Peter Parker, Enemies, I've watched Killing Eve too many times, Inspired by Killing Eve (TV 2018), M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, mutual obsession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23985979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Intelligent FBI agent Tony Stark develops an unhealthy obsession with Peter Parker, a  brilliant and ruthless teen assassin. But when he catches up to the young criminal, will Tony capture Peter or will Peter trap Tony in a different web altogether?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 16
Kudos: 117
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Busy Weekend

**Vienna**

Peter Parker looked at the little girl in the ice cream parlour. Her mother was busy on her phone, barely paying any attention to her daughter. The girl solemnly scooped a large portion of her vanilla ice cream and shoved it in her already-smeared mouth.

The girl met Peter’s gaze with the precociousness inherent in all children.

Peter attempted a smile, willing his face to contort. The girl stared stonily back. Damn he was bad at smiling on cue. Was he showing too much teeth or too little? Bucky always told him the trick to smiling was in the eyes. Too bad the only time Peter really paid any attention to people’s eyes was when…well, when smiling was the farthest thing from their minds.

The little girl glanced away and looked at the server behind the bar. Peter scooped some of the rum raisin he was eating and followed her stare. The man behind the bar was all tooth and beaky nose. Ugh.

The server smiled at the girl and she smiled back. How did he do that? Peter was definitely better looking than the gangly piece of shit. He studied the way the man’s face moved as he smiled.

How his lips were stretched just enough, not too wide nor too narrow. The way tiny wrinkles appeared around the corner of his eyes. How the eyes themselves sparkled with some emotion. Kindness? Happiness? In any case, it was something basic and Peter could probably easily fake it.

The girl looked back at Peter.

He smiled. He remembered to crinkle the eyes just so, stretch his lips just so, and showed just a hint of his teeth. Oh, and he made sure something sparkled in his eyes.

And the girl smiled back. Perfect, A+, certified fresh.

If the girl noticed that his smiled had turned smug, her face showed no indication. Dumb kid.

Still smiling smugly, Peter checked the slim watch on his wrist. Time to go.

He finished his ice cream and stood. With a victorious grin, he dropped a few coins in the tip jar and sauntered out of the parlour. On his way out, he made sure to smack the girl’s ice cream bowl, showering her in half-melted vanilla.

Tuning out the girl’s cries and her mother’s indignant yells, Peter walked briskly through the square and into the Viennese dusk.

**Washington, D.C.**

Tony Stark woke up screaming at the top his lungs. His arms! Fuck, his arms! They were gone! Fuck, how?!

“Tony, what’s wrong?!” Pepper’s voice was frantic, although he could barely hear her over his own screams. Strong hands flipped him to his back. And his arms were back.

Tony snapped open his eyes. Pepper’s eyes were wide with shock, her hands gripping his shoulders. Weak sunlight filtered through the small bedroom windows.

“Tony, what’s wrong?” Pepper’s breathing was slowing down but her eyes were still alarmed.

“I fell asleep on both my arms.” God, it sounded stupider admitting it out loud. Pepper’s face was a picture of confusion.

“Hey, they’re coming back now, see?” He wiggled his fingers in front of her.

“Christ, Tony, you scared me half to death,” Pepper sighed, collapsing beside him. “Screaming like a lunatic.”

“What time did we leave last night?” Tony murmured, rubbing his eyes with one of his full-functional arms.

“Shortly after you and Rhodey sang ‘Love is an Open Door,’” Pepper said. He could hear her smiling.

“Oh yeah,” he said proudly, draping an arm over her shoulders, “No one beats us at Disney duets. No one.” They went quiet, not a sound in the air but their breathing and the almost imperceptible sound of the city. Marriage had a lot of perks and comfortable silence was one of the least appreciated.

“What day is it?” Tony asked, feeling himself start to get drowsy again.

“Wow, you must have drunk a lot more than I thought,” Pepper chuckled, “It’s Saturday, all day.”

Tony perked up. He kissed Pepper’s freckled shoulder.

“Hey hotstuff, we have the whole day to fu-”

**FBI, WASHINGTON DESK**

“How the fuck are you so…” Tony grumbled, waving vaguely at Steve Rogers, “Fuck, I’m so hung over I can’t even finish that sentence.”

“Perky?” Steve supplied. He had obviously been called in halfway through his morning jog since he was still in his running clothes. Tony had barely had time to shit and shower before hastily dressing. Thank God he had the presence of mind to grab his beloved pair of shades. Without Edith, he didn’t know if he could handle the glaring florescent lights of the FBI Field Office.

“I was going to say ‘alive,’ actually,” Tony said. Steve led the way to the conference room Rhodey had told them to go to. Somehow, Steve had found the time to buy a bear claw and was devouring the pastry. Tony’s stomach grumbled.

“Do you know why Rhodey’s calling us in on a weekend?” he asked to keep his mind from the delicious smell of Steve’s buns. Tony flinched at the mental image.

“I’ve no idea,” Steve said happily, finishing one bear claw and fishing another from the brown paper bag he carried.

“Do you know who we’re meeting with?”

“Not a clue.”

“Wow, the FBI’s really getting our money’s worth with you, huh.” He snatched the paper bag from Steve. There were still two pastries left. And people said miracles only happened to good people.

“I’ve no idea what we’re doing here anyway,” Steve chuckled. Tony didn’t have the energy to agree.

Technically, they were agents of the FBI. Rhodey’s department, which was Tony, Steve, and Sam Wilson, where what they called “the receptionists of Witness Protection.” They handled the security and safety of potential witnesses _before_ the actual Witness Protection operatives stepped in. They didn’t even have the exciting job of coming up with aliases or arranging the transfer. They were glorified babysitters.

Tony tried to fight off his hang over before entering the conference room. Steve peeked into a small glass window built into the door and gasped.

“Oh my God, that’s Natasha Romanoff!”

Tony squinted at Steve before remembering he was wearing shades. Damn, his eloquent expression was wasted. He took a quick peek into the conference room and saw a serious looking red-head with full lips and cold green eyes sitting across from Rhodey.

“Natasha Romanoff!” Steve repeated. “Special Agent Romanoff?”

“You do know that no matter how many times you say her name, I still have no idea who she is, right?”

“She’s a special agent? High-level liaison with Interpol? Head of the International Crimes Unit?”

“You want me to put in a good word for you, bud?” Tony said, nudging Steve with an elbow. “Make you the new face of American international politics?”

“No! God, I’d be too embarrassed.” Steve fanboying would have been annoying if it wasn’t sort of endearing. The man was over thirty and he still blushed for fuck’s sake.

“Alright then. Lips sealed.” Tony ducked into the conference room, apologising profusely. Rhodey glared tiredly at him with red-rimmed eyes. Sitting beside Romanoff was Jasper Sitwell, technically the head of Witness Protection. He pursed his lips disapprovingly as Tony set the paper bag down, releasing a barrage of crinkling noises. Well, since they were already judging him, Tony took out a pastry and dug in.

“Very professional,” Rhodey murmured, “Can I have some off-”

The rest of Rhodey’s please were drowned out by Sitwell clearing his throat and greeting everyone.

“Sorry for pulling you in on the weekend,” Sitwell droned, not sounding remotely sorry at all, “Sadly people are evil assholes all week.” He made the introductions and Tony noted that Romanoff was not one for handshakes. She settled for a small smile that didn’t touch her eyes and curt nod.

“I’ll be brief,” Romanoff began as Sitwell distributed dossiers, “There’s been an assassination in Vienna.” Her voice was pleasantly low, almost gravelly. “Victor Kedrin was a Russian politician with links to sex trafficking. He was visiting Vienna ostensibly for diplomatic reasons but we have reason to believe he was organizing the transport of preteen boys to various sundry locales. He was meeting a lover outside of Russia to avoid scrutiny as well.”

Sitwell passed around pictures of a bald Russian man with an undeniably shady face as Romanoff continued.

“He was killed coming out of quaint sushi restaurant in Steffenplatz with his boyfriend, Karl Moskovka,” Romanoff continued, handing out photos of a boy with angelic features. The kid was probably barely nineteen, if that. “Somehow, the assassin managed to slice open Kedrin’s femoral artery without anyone noticing. He was probably bleeding out under the table for a maybe over minute before he collapsed.”

“Cool.” Tony’s eyes widened. Shit did he just say that out loud? Rhodey quirked an eyebrow at him but it Romanoff’s eyes had flickered over to him. She continued smoothly.

“Karl is the only witness to the kill, but he evaded Austrian authorities. Interpol tracked him here to U.S. and we managed to take him in here in Washington.”

Tony couldn’t help it. It was gonna come out like word vomit. “It was probably a young man.”

Everyone turned to look at him. Sitwell was glaring indignantly. Rhodey was exasperated. Romanoff was unmoved.

“What makes you say that?” Romanoff’s voice was the same low tone, face expressionless. Tony wouldn’t risk playing poker with her.

“I mean isn’t it obvious?” Apparently not, since Rhodey was massaging his temples and Sitwell looked like he was on the verge of a stroke.

“Victor Kedrin was a pedophile,” Tony began, “Which means that he would allow and even welcome an attractive boy near him. It would have been ridiculously easy for someone like that to make an excuse to touch his leg.” He was talking faster, more eagerly. He was making sense. He was right. This was another one of those cases. “Hell, Kedrin could have pulled his hand there in the first place.”

“That,” Sitwell interjected hotly, “is pure supposition.”

“Well, were there any CCTVs in the restaurant?” Tony shot back. He was right and he knew it, and fuck Sitwell’s shiny head for putting him down like that.

“They were out of order that day, actually,” Romanoff said, evenly. She was tilting her head just a little bit.

“Listen,” Sitwell said, standing up, “Just get that boy some protection and we’ll take it from there. All the _facts_ are in the dossier.” He shot Tony and Rhodey a final contemptuous look before walking out.

Romanoff put on her coat and glanced at them coolly. “Thank you for the input, Tony,” she said, before leaving quietly.

Rhodey snatched the last bear claw from Tony and wolfed it down. “You couldn’t have shut up for like five minutes?”

Tony sighed. “I know, I know. But they weren’t even considering it! If I can just talk to-”

“Tony, no.” Rhodey finished the pastry and sighed heavily. “It’s not our department. Besides, the big boys-“

“Sexist.”

“- And girls,” Rhodey added, glaring at Tony, “upstairs are handling this. Let’s just do our jobs and try not to get that dickweasel Sitwell all up in our business, okay?” He took hold of Tony’s shoulder and squeezed. “Okay?”

Rhodey had put a lot on the line for Tony over the years. Secretly, Tony felt that his shenanigans had cost Rhodey several chances of getting promoted. So now they had to answer to that dickweasel, Jasper Sitwell.

“Fine,” he said, gripping Rhodey’s hand and slumping.

The door opened and Steve poked his head in.

“How awesome was she? Did she say anything amazing? Does she smell as cool as she looks?”

Rhodey met the barrage of questions with a thoroughly baffled expression.

Tony motioned for Steve to come closer, and the former Marine obliged.

“She called me Tony,” he whispered.

Steve jaw dropped in envy.

**LONDON**

Peter basically skipped through the crowded streets of Camden, enjoying the sights and sounds of the bustling neighbourhood. He had bought an entirely new outfit with some of the money from the Vienna hit. He enjoyed the way the open-necked shirt, striped in burgundy and black, showed his collarbones. And he loved the way the dark green pants hugged his ass.

Peter could feel people looking. He grinned. Let them look.

He bought some halloumi fries and savoured the crunch and flavour of each stick. He walked briskly and without worry. There were a few puddles here and there from the last drizzle and Peter stepped in them all, enjoying the way stains began to appear on his brand new white tennis shoes.

A man rounded a corner just as Peter splashed one foot down in the last puddle. He was stocky, with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard. His temples were winged with white hair.

Peter moistened his lips as the man approached. He put on a small coy smile as the middle-aged man walked past. Sadly, the man didn’t seem to notice.

Bummer. Peter sighed and entered the lobby of his apartment building.

Mrs Bouchard was trudging down the steps with a couple of trash bags, groaning all the way. Her arthritis-riddled legs would have creaked with every stepped. Peter suppressed a grin and whistled. “Your gams are absolutely divine, Mrs Bouchard,” he said in flawless French, falling to one knee, “You must marry me!”

“Asshole,” Mrs Bouchard hissed as she ambled down. She stopped to gather her breath. “You look amazing,” she said, grudgingly.

“Thank you.” Peter turned to give her the full view.

Mrs Bouchard nodded approvingly. “Those pants make your ass look like peaches.”

“All they need now is some cream,” Peter grinned before rushing up the steps. “This is called running! You should try it sometime!” Mrs Bouchard called him an asshole one more time before he got into his apartment.

The penthouse apartment was a modern wonder, all clean lines and wide spaces. Peter drowned in space. And all of it was just for him. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated two sides of the room. Most of the main floor was dominated by a huge entertainment system. Enough fitness equipment stood in one corner to fill a small gym, not including the ropes and accoutrements for gymnastics. A set of steps led up to wide ledge surrounded by a sleek iron railing that served as his bedroom. Not many seventeen year olds could boast such a living space and Peter loved it.

After all, he was no ordinary seventeen year old.

He stashed his purchases in a closet embedded in one wall. The space also contained a small armory of knives and two handguns. Peter dumped the bags in them and pulled off his shoes before collapsing on his massive couch.

The boredom began to set in almost immediately. His brown eyes darted to the digital clock that stood on one set of drawers. Half an hour before Bucky was due to arrive.

Peter flipped himself up and changed clothes. He chose a huge black tee and sweats, basic bottoming-out clothes. Rummaging on one table, he found a professional make up kit he kept for emergencies and colored his face with an alarming combination of blue and purple.

He checked the time. Ten minutes left.

He hurriedly found a length of rope and secured on end of it to the railing surrounding his bedroom ledge. The other end slipped inside his t-shirt, before tying it under his armpits. Making sure that his weight would fall on that loop, he looped the rope a second time around his neck.

Peter climbed on the railing, balancing effortlessly on the narrow metal. He waited.

A key turned in the latch and the door opened.

“Peter? You home?”

Bucky Barnes emerged on the main floor, dark eyes peeking through his long brown hair. He was wearing a hideous army jacket with faux fur collar, faded blue jeans, and worn boots. His gaze drifted upwards and locked unto Peter, standing precariously on the railing.

For drama’s sake, Peter made himself wobble a little.

Bucky’s eyes widened and he nearly dropped the shopping bag he was holding.

“Peter-”

“I can’t take it anymore!” Peter said, planting the back of one hand dramatically on his forehead. “Good-bye cruel world!” He back-flipped off the railing as Bucky shouted.

The rope pulled taut, but only around his armpits. The noose around his neck stayed slack. Peter wiggled his legs and made terrible gagging noises. After a minute, he stopped moving.

“You’re so full of shit, Peter,” Bucky said tiredly, sitting down on the couch. He set down the shopping bag by his feet and waited.

Peter stayed still.

“Peter…are you okay?” Bucky said after a while. The older man stood up and approached him, worry creeping into the scruffy face. Bucky stretched his face upwards to examine Peter.

“BOO!”

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” Bucky shouted, falling on his ass.

Peter laughed and, without touching the ground, extricated himself from the rope. He swung on his former noose and leapt into the air, landing spritely behind Bucky. He helped his handler up.

Bucky shook his head and ruffled Peter’s hair. “I got you dinner. Pad thai from that place you like.”

Peter grinned and dug out the cartons. “You got extra shrimp, right?”

“Yup, all the fixings,” Bucky said before looking seriously at Peter. “How was Vienna?”

“It was okay.” Peter shrugged and opened the box. The delicious aroma of Thai food wafted to his nose. He sat down on the floor and began to dig in. Bucky sat back down on the couch, facing Peter.

“Hey,” he said, as casually as possible, “Wanna watch a movie? I got one of the classics: ‘A New Hope.’” He already knew the answer but had to ask.

“Sorry kid, can’t,” both of them said at the same time. Bucky shook his head. “Episode Four is a classic movie to you? Jesus, sometimes I forget you’re young.”

He took out a stack of bills from his pocket and tossed it at Peter. “A little extra from management.”

“Because I’m amazing?”

“Absolutely.” Bucky hesitated. “They also want you to do another job. Tomorrow. They know it’s a tight turnaround so they’re paying extra.”

Great, less time to get bored. He had tried playing Assassin’s Creed but as it turns out, playing virtual assassin was boring when you get to be a real one. Ditto for Hitman.

“Where is it this time?” He tried to downplay his excitement. No need to give Bucky any ideas that they could pull this stunt off often. Peter still liked having a lot of free time even though he was mostly at a loss of what to do with it. He called it the Slacker’s Dilemma.

“You’ll like it,” Bucky promised, “The job is in Naples. You get to see Pompeii, Herculaneum, and Vesuvius.”

“Rocks, rocks, and more rocks,” Peter groaned and lay on his back. “Can I at least bring someone to play with?”

“Nope,” Bucky said, standing up. He tossed a postcard at Peter, who deftly caught it mid-air. “When you get back, maybe we can watch that classic movie.”

“Yeah, right!” They both yelled. Routine. They had a routine now, Bucky and Peter. The door opened and closed and Peter was alone again.

He remained lying down for a while, before getting up. He powered on a laptop that was resting on top of his DVD player and opened a special browser. He quickly inputted a series of numbers printed on a discreet corner of the postcard into the search bar.

The browser opened a file with a picture of a smiling Neapolitan gentleman. He was quite old, seventy one according to the file. Don Mariano Greco, head of the Greco crime family who had consolidated the Mafia in Naples. He was beginning to make overtures to the Corsican families. He was celebrating his birthday the next day.

Peter smiled. Poor man, he didn’t know he was already dead.


	2. Heroin Russian and Granitas

**FBI, WASHINGTON DESK**

“Oh fuck, that’s gross,” Tony blurted.

“Language!” Steve interjected, “You already dropped two F-bombs today and that’s more than enough.”

“Hey, blame Sam,” Tony grimaced, “It’s his eggs that made me say it.”

Sam Wilson smiled and shrugged. “You said you wanted to try my hangover cure.”

“Well, you didn’t mention they were raw eggs.” Tony brushed a hand on his mouth. Ugh, he could feel the egg whites sticking to the back of his throat like phlegm.

The three of them were seated in their cramped room which was also the antechamber to Rhodey’s office. Judging from the retching sounds that came from beyond the door, Tony was sure his boss was throwing up in his trash bin.

Sam Wilson draped his muscular frame on his chair. “So who are we babysitting?”

“His name is Karl Moskovka,” Tony supplied, already jotting down arrangements and notes, “Sam, contact the station and tell them we need two armed officers with him with each shift.” He turned to Steve. “Contact the hospital he’s staying in and secure their cooperation.”

“That should be easy,” Steve said breezily, “There’s no hospital yet. The boy’s still down at the station. Apparently he’s, to quote the attending sergeant, ‘trippin’ balls.’”

Tony froze. An opportunity. In a split second, he made his decision. “I’m going down to the station.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Sam said. Then he saw the look on Tony’s face. “Oh shit, you’re not.”

“Tony, don’t,” was all Steve said.

Tony stuffed his things into his messenger bag and spread his hands. “Look, I’m just dropping by to make sure the kid’s okay, that’s all.” He frowned at Steve. “Also, why doesn’t Sam get told off for saying a bad word?”

Rhodey stepped out of his office and Tony was glad for all the alcohol they had guzzled because his boss missed the tension entirely. “Did…did we sing ‘Frozen’ last night?”

“Yeah,” all three of them replied.

“Jesus,” Rhodey groaned. He heaved a sigh before shooting Tony a quick smile. “By the way, you’re wrong, Sherlock.”

“About what?”

“His hairstyle?” Sam supplied.

“His clothes?” Steve suggested.

“My choice in co-workers?” Tony said, “And what’s wrong with my clothes?”

“About the assassin,” Rhodey clarified, “Vienna police found CCTV from outside the restaurant. The killer was a tall, _middle-aged_ man.”

“Did you see it yourself?” Tony said immediately. There was no way that could be true. No way in hell someone like Kedrin would allow that sort of man that close to him without noticing. He was right and he knew it.

“Of course not,” Rhodey said, exasperated, “All that matters is that Sitwell said he saw it and that’s that.”

Tony subsided and resumed packing his things. Sam and Steve shared a look but mercifully remained quiet. All of them knew Sitwell thought their department was unnecessary. Not squealing to Rhodey about his plan were Sam and Steve’s tacit approval in proving that dickweasel Sitwell wrong.

“Hey, where you going?” Rhodey mumbled as Tony pulled open the outer door of the office.

“Going home, actually. Pepper’s making something special and she’d kill me if I missed dinner.” The lie slipped out so smoothly Tony was surprised at himself. He tried not think about how he’d almost never lied straight to Rhodey’s face before.

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Karl Moskovka was singing something in Russian and he could not carry a tune. The police sergeant looking after him was wincing with every shrill note.

“I’m sorry, but most of what he’s saying is profanity,” explained the Russian translator. She was perhaps in her mid-sixties and looked like she wished she could already turn off her hearing.

Karl was in a loose scoop neck shirt, and Tony could see several tattoos on his chest and forearms. He knew what some of the symbols meant. Angelic Karl, with his tousled golden hair and large blue eyes, was part Russian criminal underworld.

“Can you ask him if he knows anyone who could try to hurt him while he’s in the country?” The translator conveyed Tony’s question promptly but their only response was more out-of-key singing from Karl. How much drugs did the kid take before getting to the airport?

“I’m sorry, but it’s just more silly tunes,” the translator said.

“Well, let’s give him a break,” Tony conceded, “He’s had a rough couple of day.” He turned to the sergeant. “Can you get him a cup of coffee or something? Anything that’ll sober him up real fast?”

As soon as the officer left, Tony took out his phone and pretended to be texting. Instead, he opened a voice recorder app. He slipped the phone in front of him so it could capture Karl’s voice clearly.

“Has he mentioned what happened in Vienna at all?” Tony asked, innocently. “Like, did he mention the killer?”

The translator considered for a second. “Well, he mentioned that they were drunk…or that he’s drunk right now. But he also mentioned a piece of velvet? And maybe an acrobat?”

“Great, is there such a thing as Heroin Russian?” Tony was getting exhausted. God, he had been looking forward to the weekend. But as tired as he was, Tony felt exhilaration. This was one of those cases, and he was part of it, not just observing second-hand.

“Ask him if the killer was a man or a woman.” The translator did as he asked.

Karl let out a rich laugh. “Akrobat,” he laughed, followed by a string of Russian and what sounded suspiciously like a name.

“What’s Manka? Who is that?”

“Oh, it’s a woman’s name,” the translator said. Tony suddenly felt unsure. Did Karl know the killer? Was it a woman after all, and not a young man? But there were so many hints and words that the translator was at a loss to explain, Tony felt there was more it than that.

“That’s seems to be all we’ll be getting from him,” Tony sighed. The sergeant returned with a steaming cup of coffee. As much as Tony wanted to grab the beverage, Karl needed it more. “We’ll get him to a hospital as soon as we can. Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers will make the arrangements.”

Well, Karl was of no help in his current state. Tony glanced down at the recording on his phone. But Pepper might just have the answer.

Pepper was finishing up with her weekend music program. Since the school district was slashing budgets, Pepper had taken up the theoretical baton while still maintaining her role as head of the math department. Fifty at-risk teenagers began packing up their instruments just as Tony entered the room.

“Tony, I wasn’t expecting you!” Pepper beamed as she kissed him. She ran a thumb over the stubble on his chin. “What’s up?”

“Well, I’m taking you out to dinner,” Tony began, “And I also need to borrow Vasily for a moment.”

Pepper stepped back in surprise. “Alright. Is this going to be a ‘surrogate son’ situation or should I be concerned?”

Tony chuckled and pressed another kiss to her temple. “Nothing like that. Just need some translation.”

Before moving to America, Vasily and his elder brother were involved in the gangs that battled each other in Moscow. After coming to the States a couple of years back, the brothers had vowed to stay on the right side of the law and build a new life. The young Russian volunteered at the school on the weekends, often helping Pepper teach music lessons, being a talented drummer.

Vasily furrowed his brow as he listened to Tony’s recording through a pair of earphones. Tony knew that under the hoodie, Vasily also had a collection of tattoos that denoted gang affiliations and achievements, just like Karl.

“Wow, he is really, really high as a kite,” Vasily said. Pepper hovered both of them patiently.

“There’s a few words that I’m sure the translator we had down at the station wouldn’t understand,” Tony explained. “She was quite old and Karl would have been speaking some sort of street slang, maybe even something like gang speak.”

Vasily shook his head and removed the earphones. “What was the kid saying?” Pepper was getting interested as well.

“Well,” Vasily began, “the kid used three different words to like describe the attacker. ‘Akrobat,’ ‘barhotka’ and ‘manka.’” He turned to Tony. “They’re all kind of…rude words for gay men. And they’re all street slang, no wonder your translator didn’t know what they meant.”

Tony leaned closer. “But are they descriptive? Like, what kind of gay man was he talking about?”

Vasily rubbed his chin. “Well, ‘akrobat’ means someone slim and lean, you know, like an acrobat. And ‘berhotka’ could mean someone with a nice, smooth ass. Like velvet, you know?”

“Was there anything about age?” Tony was getting excited.

“’Manka’ usually means, like someone girly or flirty, you know?” Vasily said, “It’s very rude, like calling a gay man ‘Mary’ or something.” He paused. “All in all, I think the kid was talking about a flirty, lean, gay person. A twink.”

Tony stood up, dialling Steve’s number on his phone. He was right! Just like he said he was! Rhodey was going to just die from embarrassment.

“Hey, Tony,” Pepper said, touching his arm, “Is it a good thing that the killer is a twink?”

“Yes, because twinks are young,” Tony murmured just as Steve picked up. “Oh thank God you don’t have a life. What are you still doing in the office?”

Steve snorted. “My neighbour is changing his drywall, and apparently he needs to do that all day, all night.”

“You know you could just tell him to quit it, right? Just put on a tight shirt and flex menacingly at his direction.”

He could Steve’s pout over the line. “What if he really needs to change that drywall now? Like, he had mold of something?”

Tony rolled his eyes. Ever the good guy, Steve Rogers. “Can you pull up the database for male assassins?”

“Yeah, what, or more like who, are you looking for?”

“Can you filter out all assassins over the age of 25?”

The sound of typing and clicking filtered over the phone. “Alright, looks like we only have two on file.”

Tony felt his heart skip a beat. A flush began to creep up his neck. “Okay, Steve, would you describe any of them as twinks?”

There was silence from Steve for about five seconds. “Erm, where are you going with this Tony? Is this a new kink of yours? If you and Pepper are looking for a threesome, there are less dangerous people all over the tri-state area.”

“Steeeeeve, focus.”

“Fine,” Steve huffed, “Can’t take a joke anymore. No, none of them are twinks. One’s more like an otter and the other is a wolf, bordering on bear if he doesn’t watch what he eats. They do look like they spoon afterwards, though.”

“Are there any others on file?” He knew it, he knew it, and finally he had an eyewitness. Tony could feel his palms getting sweaty.

“Couple of others, but they’re either dead or incarcerated,” Steve replied after a few seconds.

“Thanks, Steve, you’re the fucking best!” Tony ended the call before Steve could lecture him on his potty mouth.

“I’ve got you,” Tony whispered.

**NAPLES**

Peter’s motorcycle ate up the road as it wound through the Neapolitan landscape. Rolling hills covered in lush grass and trees paled in grandeur to the rearing bulk of Mount Vesuvius. Ruins and boulders dotted the landscape amid blooming orchards and vineyards.

In short, the landscape was full of rocks. It was chock full of rocks. Great.

He pulled to a stop on a quaint town on top of a high hill. At a corner restaurant near a steep cliff, Peter parked the motorcycle and ordered a _granita_. He savoured the sourness of the fresh lemon and the freeze of the crushed ice on his tongue. Italy was lovely but the heat could be a real bitch.

Making sure the _granita_ didn’t spill on his fitted mustard yellow shirt, he straightened his striped burgundy and dark blue pants and surveyed the countryside below him. There, in the heart of an extensive orchard, was Don Greco’s _palazzo_.

Peter took out a pair of binoculars and scoped out the _palazzo_ ’s grounds. Through the lenses, he saw a parade of sleek vehicles making their way through the trees into the compound. An assortment of guests were already schmoozing and dancing in a large courtyard. Tall, broad shouldered men patrolled the perimeter, in their dark suits and sunglasses they obviously also wore at night.

Hm. He slurped down the rest of the _granita._ This was going to be a fun afternoon.

Peter could have climbed the perimeter wall in his sleep. The stone was crumbly, with plenty of handholds like vines and loose rocks. The guards might as well have been wearing blindfolds instead of sunglasses. He strolled through the trees and pressed himself against the outermost wall of the _palazzo_.

These stupid people. Most of their safety relied on the sheep being too afraid to attack them. But Peter wasn’t a meek little lamb. He was a spider. And like the itsy-bitsy spider, he climbed up a drainpipe. Maybe comparing himself to an itsy-bitsy spider was a little dumb. Whatever, the sun was hot and the tiled roof was like freaking oven.

When he was finally inside, Peter took a peek at the party. He spotted Don Greco easily enough, going from huddle to huddle, always welcomed with congratulations and kisses. Peter needed a way to mingle with the black tie crowd and scope out the scene more thoroughly.

He checked each room until he found a pair of suitcases and tall wardrobe. Rummaging through the wardrobe yielded only unpleasant clothes that smelled as ugly as they looked. The suitcases had more appealing choices.

Footsteps in the hall. Only a few seconds to react.

The man was wearing a beautifully cut dark blue suit with a subdued pattern in bronze. He immediately noticed the open wardrobe and he checked the inside before shutting it. Clever man. After briefly looking around, the man shut the door. His boss would be celebrating another birthday if he’d thought of looking up.

Peter dropped from between the ceiling beams. Aww, he chipped a nail clinging to the beams. He was gonna kill Don Greco extra hard for that. 

The white suit clung to him like a dream. The fabric was light and breezy, perfect for the weather. Peter smiled benignly at everyone he ran into, always remembering to put that spark in his eyes. Don Greco was still making the rounds, now giving sweets and money to some children.

Peter looked around until he spotted a familiar site: teenagers lounging in a corner. Some were already smoking up a storm, the rest were tapping away on their phone. Among them was a girl. Ah, there was his opening. But first, he made a quick stop at a fondue table.

The girl was in a bright yellow summer dress, her honey blonde hair a loose cloud. Peter approached her with an easy grin and two drinks. “Good afternoon,” he said in Italian.

He was well aware how good he looked in the suit. He’d even taken the time to fix his hair. She licked him with her eyes, and she wasn’t alone. “What’s your name?” He already knew the answer but no need to tell her that, right? Spoils the fun.

“Sylviana Morel,” she purred. Greco’s favourite granddaughter. He’d move heaven and earth for her.

“Can you show me where the bathrooms are?” He pitched his voice lower than normal. ”This place is so huge and I don’t want to get lost.”

“Of course.” She stood up, phone in one hand. She winked at the others.

“You taste like lemons,” Sylviana breathed.

Peter wanted to say that Sylviana needed to use less tongue. He tried his best to seem enthusiastic but it was distracting. Like getting slobbered on by a Labrador or something.

They were entangled in the master bedroom’s adjoining bathroom, her dress rucked up to her waist as his hands explored the insides of her panties. She tried to return the favour.

“What have you got in there?” she giggled.

“Just very happy to see you.” He distracted her by cupping a breast.

“Open your phone,” he whispered, “I want to leave you something to remember me by.”

She seemed to like the idea and did as he asked. Quickly, Peter took the phone from her, making sure it stayed unlocked. With his free hand, he slammed her head against the tile hard enough to knock out. She slipped to the floor in a boneless heap. For propriety’s sake, he fixed her skirts.

Locking her in the bathroom, Peter scrolled through her contacts until he found Don Greco’s number.

He sent a quick text to her beloved grandpapa. _Hurry, we have a surprise gift for you in your bedroom._

To his credit, Don Greco didn’t keep his granddaughter waiting. Peter was admiring the way the silk bedspread shimmered in the afternoon light when the dead-man-walking…well, walked in.

“Pardon, but have you seen my Silviana?” Oh, polite for a mob boss.

“Where did you get this?” The silk was exquisite under his fingertips. He snapped his eyes on Don Greco, who had warily approached him.

“It’s by Liliana Rizzari,” the old man mumbled, eyes darting around the room, “She only works with silk.”

Peter got up and slowly stalked towards Don Greco. The old man’s eyes roved his body just like his granddaughter.

“Are you…my present?”

Peter grinned and stopped directly in front of the target. “I was sent to you, yes.”

The target put a hand on his cheek. It felt like veal.

“You are…very beautiful.”

Peter leaned close, firmly holding the target’s chin in one hand. “You really should ask permission before touching someone else.”

The target smiled delightedly. Peter stuck his other hand in the waistband of his pants. He grabbed hold of the long, thin object Sylviana had accidentally touched.

The target leaned forward, mouth eager. Ugh, it looked like he had the same habits as his granddaughter.

Peter could feel his pulse pounding in his ears. In a single fluid movement, Peter drew the fondue fork and stabbed it handle-deep into Don Greco’s ear.

The old man began to spasm and shake. Peter grabbed hold of his head and stared into the dying man’s eyes.

The spark was still in them.

Still there.

Still there.

Still there.

Gone.

Peter let out his breath in a ragged rush. His pupils were blown wide open. His mouth felt too dry and too moist at the same time.

He let go of Don Greco’s body and almost in a daze, walked out of the room. At the edge of his hearing, the sound of Sylviana stumbling out of the bathroom drifted. Peter didn’t care. The way the spark just…poof! He didn’t even register her shrill screams.

By the time the suited men in dark glasses stormed up the stairs, Peter was long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who had to look up Russian words for gay people and got depressed? I did! Thank you guys so much for all the love and comments! I'm def taking notes.


	3. A Sticky Situation

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Tony’s small desk was littered with photos of the Vienna crime scene, books on the psychology of young killers, and his notes on the case. A photo from Kedren’s autopsy report was on his computer screen. The fatal wound was barely an inch long, but it had punctured Kedren’s femoral artery. It shared the screen with the aftermath: Kedren’s corpse, eyes glazed, with a pool of blood soaked into the restaurant’s floor.

It had been a precise wound. A killing wound.

Tony had studied enough about psychology to know that the killing instinct was difficult to tap into. How people would often pull their punches or shift their aim almost unconsciously just to avoid dealing a fatal blow.

So how can a mind so young have that kind of urge? Could trauma alone account for such cold, calculated violence? Or are some minds just innately full of dark, twisted energy?

“Wine – Oh my God!”

Pepper leaned on the armrest of Tony’s chair as he took the wine glass she offered. “All that from this teeny-tiny wound,” he said before taking a sip.

“That’s so awful.”

Tony shrugged and pressed a kiss on her hip. “I don’t know. It’s kind of impressive, in its own way.”

Pepper shuddered and rose. “Dinner’s in five minutes. Do you want cheese on yours?”

“How would you murder me?” The question slipped out before Tony could process it.

“Hey, all I wanted to know was if you wanted cheese,” Pepper said, smiling.

“Come on, purely as a hypothetical.” He took a swallow of wine to settle himself.

Pepper sighed heavily and cradled her chin in one hand. “I don’t know, cut the brakes in your car?”

Tony snorted. “Come on, I’d know immediately. And the cops would come after you the same day.”

“I don’t know, babe. How would you murder me?”

He considered the question and inspiration sprung immediately. “I’d put strawberries in a smoothie to trigger your allergies. Once you’ve suffocated, I’d take your body to the tub, drain the blood, and hack it apart. I’d puree your soft tissue and organs and flush them down a gas station toilet. I’ll put all the bones but your skull in a trash bag, weigh them down, and throw them into the Potomac. I’ll pulverize your skull and teeth with a sledgehammer and scatter the bits in trashcans throughout the city.”

Pepper had taken a step back and was looking at him with a mildly surprised expression. He’d been surprised himself.

“You’ve put some thought into that,” she said before chuckling. The faintest whiff of nervousness ringed her voice.

“Was it sexy in creepy, Hannibal way?”

“Not at all,” she laughed before kissing his chin.

They were lying down in bed. Pepper was just about done with her nightly beauty routine. Tony removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The case was eating at him. Karl was saying one thing and Sitwell’s CCTV was saying another. He knew which one was worth more in court.

He needed a distraction.

Beside him, Pepper yawned and stretched, the thin fabric of her shirt barely hiding her freckled skin.

“Hey, you wanna have sex?”

Pepper shrugged. “Sure.”

Tony slid his hands around her waist and pulled her close. He kissed a cluster of freckles on her collarbone before latching on her neck. Her dug furrows into his back even through his shirt. Her breathing got faster as they became more tangled under the sheets.

Tony broke away abruptly. “If only I could watch the fucking CCTV,” he growled.

“What?”

He pulled back completely, ignoring his growing erection. “Sitwell said that he saw a CCTV video that showed a tall middle-aged man being the killer, but I don’t just buy it. Someone’s lying.”

Pepper sat up on her elbows, red hair spilling down her shoulders. “But what about your recording? Rhodey has to see that it’s worth looking into, right?”

“I wish,” he huffed, lying back down, “But the kid was high off his brain when I recorded him, and I didn’t get his consent to do it. I need more”

Pepper settled beside him and flicked off the bedside lamps. “What are you planning on doing about it?”

“I could swing by the hospital, have him record sober. Then they’d have to take it seriously. Maybe pressure them to show us the CCTV.”

In the dimness, he heard Pepper burrow under the sheets. “You know, you should have been a field agent. Give that Romanoff woman a run for her money.”

“Thank you!” Satisfaction coiled in his chest as he closed his eyes.

“Oh shit, sex.” Tony sat back up and faced Pepper. She kept her back turned but he could see her shoulders shudder from suppressed laughter.

“You know what, I’m actually pretty tired.”

“Oh, okay.” He turned off the lights. After a moment, Tony spoke up again. “Can I have Vasily’s number?”

Pepper could only snort out her laughter.

**LONDON**

Peter had heard Bucky when he entered the apartment but had resolutely kept his eyes closed. His cock was snugly nestled in a nice plump ass and he could feel the second guy’s morning wood pressed against his lower back. If it was really so important, Bucky would –

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

Ugh. It _was_ important. Peter stretched and opened his eyes to see Bucky with a carefully neutral expression, hovering beside the bed. “Do you think these college boys could excuse themselves or something?”

Peter joined Bucky in the kitchen as soon as the two delicious university students had left. He’d put on a loose silk robe in blue, gold, and red. It was one of the things he’d bought on the way back from Naples. It felt like he was wearing water.

“A few days ago, a very controversial Russian politician was killed in a Viennese restaurant,” Bucky said, leaning on the counter. “Very good,” his handler continued, gracing Peter with a small smile and a tilt of his head.

Peter smiled back. Something was off about Bucky. Peter tried to keep his expression as innocent as possible.

“The restaurant’s CCTV cameras had ‘malfunctioned’ during the day. Well done.”

Okay, now Peter was sure something was different about Bucky.

“The man’s barely legal lover was apparently with him at the time,” Bucky continued. Was that disapproval in his voice? “That would have been fine but the boy was unharmed.” Bucky pursed his lips. “Not good.”

Peter narrowed his eyes. Surely….No! Bucky wouldn’t!

“The boy is currently in Washington, where he’s going to be their key witness to the murder.” Bucky shook his head. “Bad. But wait! It gets worse, because he’ll be interviewed in less than 48 hours. Very bad.”

Bucky glared at Peter in silence, to let the implication sink in. A dog barked in the distance.

Peter spoke up first. “Did you dye your hair?”

Bucky had the decency to look embarassed. “Yes.”

Peter made a small noise that could have been “huh” or could have been “hm.”

It had the desired effect. Bucky ran his fingers on his temples were a few days ago there had been a few strands of sexy gray hair. He handed Peter an envelope.

“Your plane leaves in a few hours,” he said as Peter took the envelope. “Keep the job neat, alright? Your grisly trick with the fondue fork is all over the news.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter smiled, “I can always get more at Target.”

“You’re not being funny.”

“That was a little bit funny though,” Peter pouted. He paused when he saw the concern on Bucky’s face. “Relax, they’re not gonna catch me.”

“They could,” Bucky said quietly.

“Well they won’t,” Peter said. People were supremely stupid. And he wasn’t.

“But they could,” Bucky insisted.

“But they won’t,” Peter sang back.

Bucky threw his hands up. “Listen, just make it look like suicide or an accident.”

Peter sighed and nodded. “Are these business class?” he said, waving the envelope.

“Of course. You’d wreak havoc on the poor bastards in economy.”

Peter grinned and hugged Bucky. The man was all muscle under his ridiculous hobo coat. “Hey, if they caught me or anything, would you miss me?” It really wasn’t an important question. Not at all. So why was he holding his breath?

“Of course,” Bucky said, ruffling Peter’s hair.

Peter hummed contentedly and snuggled tighter against his handler.

**WASHINGTON D.C.**

All four of them were gathered around Rhodey’s table for their regular lunch swap. After drawing lots, Sam grumbled at getting Tony’s. Pepper wasn’t the best cook so she’d just given Tony a slightly sad sandwich. Tony, on the other hand, rejoiced when got to swap with Steve.

He sighed when he opened Steve’s Tupperware container. A glorious baked ziti enveloped them all in its meaty aroma. “You husband is a freaking food genius,” Tony said, stabbing at the food.

Steve shrugged as he took a bite of whatever bachelor mixture Rhodey had come up with. “He gets super guilty when he has to go out of town for work and tries to bribe me with food.”

“I’m gonna get a pizza or something,” Sam said, holding the sad sandwich away from him. It made an even sadder squelching sound when he dropped it in the trash can.

Steve politely spat out Rhodey’s lunch in a tissue and left with Sam.

“So I’m guessing Pepper hasn’t been taking cooking lessons,” Rhodey began, tucking into Sam’s lunch.

“No kidding,” Tony replied, shuddering, “She only kinda makes goop.” He looked down at the baked ziti and tried to concentrate on eating. “But she’s great.”

“Uh-huh.”

Tony looked up to find Rhodey raising an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Listen man, you’ve been weird all morning,” Rhodey said patiently, “And if you’ve got to unload something, now’s the best time.”

“Alright.” Tony inhaled and put aside Steve’s excellent lunch. “The assassin who got Kedren was a young man, maybe even a teenager. I interviewed Karl and –”

Rhodey’s groan cut him off. “Tony, you’ve got to let this go! There was CCTV.”

“No no no,” Tony interjected, half-rising from his chair, “They didn’t mention anything about a CCTV until after I said it was a young man.”

Rhodey held one hand up. “Hang on, you _interviewed_ the witness?”

Oops. Tony shut his mouth.

“Dude, what’s going on? Why are you all riled up or something?”

Tony couldn’t take it anymore. “Nothing’s going on! Nothing ever does! But then this – this kid is going on a homicidal rampage and no one’s doing anything!” He was vaguely aware of Rhodey saying something but it was his turn to say something, goddammit. “I find it deeply fucking suspicious that no one else is putting these dots together. So either someone’s actively shushing things up or people are too fucking lazy to do so.”

Rhodey glanced at him sharply. “You calling me lazy, Tony?”

Tony spread his hand. “If the shoe fit, boss. This kid is out there and he’s new and he’s ramping up.” He stood up to collect a news article he’d downloaded and printed that morning. “Look at this hit, in Naples. I’ve been noticing it for months,” he continued, ignoring Rhodey’s exasperated look. “Karl is our only lead, maybe our only hope of catching this kid and tomorrow Sitwell’s giving him away to some other department.”

“Because that’s the job,” Rhodey said, voice straining, “If you’re right, they’ll find it out for themselves and you can pat yourself on the back for being right, like you always do.”

Tony winced. “But what if they’re part of it?”

“Part of what, Tony? A secret conspiracy or some shit?” Rhodey ran a hand over his face and leaned back. “Look, Tones, I know you’re home life isn’t ideal and things have simmered down between you and Pep, but that’s not an excuse for trying to spice up our boring job with some crazy-ass theories about teen assassins and secret conspiracies.”

Tony simmered quietly. To his credit, Rhodey looked like he knew he’d crossed a line.

“Look, Tony, you could get in a lot of trouble if I wasn’t anyone but your best friend.”

Tony scoffed. “Trouble’s not interested in me.”

“If it will make you feel better, go to the hospital and make sure Karl’s comfortable and secure.” Rhodey held up a finger. “Don’t do anything illegal, alright?”

“Is this…illegal?” Vasily shuffled beside Tony looking very uncomfortable as they crossed the hospital lobby.

Tony put an arm around the young man’s shoulder. “Nah, buddy. It’s two to three questions and then you can get back to eating borscht. Relax.”

When they got to Karl’s floor, Tony flashed his ID at the uniformed officer stationed outside the kid’s room and waved at the other officer sitting by the bed. A nurse in fun scrubs went up to Tony and asked what they wanted.

“Just bringing along one of his cousins to say hi,” Tony said, pointing at Vasily who waved.

The nurse beamed at the two of them. “Oh lovely, another one. Well, you can wait out here while I get him ready, okay?”

“Maybe we should get him something?” Vasily muttered as they lounged outside the room. “Like grapes and sick people gifts.”

Tony was about to reply when his stomach grumbled. Damn, the baked ziti was making its way out of his system.

“Listen, kid, I’m just gonna go to the restroom. Wait here.”

“Ah crap.” The restroom only had two stalls and only one of them was working. It was also occupied. Tony heaved a sigh went to the sink to splash water on his face. God, he hated feeling wired and tired at the same time. The cold water jarred him, grounding him.

The stall door opened and a teenaged boy stepped out. He had wavy brown hair and a small notch on his left eyebrow. His mouth was pouty in a way that looked like he was carrying around a small frog in it. A rainbow unicorn sticker, like the kind doctors handed out to children, was stuck on the front of his plaid shirt.

Tony tried to ignore the kid even though the teen’s rum colored eyes were glued to him. After he dried his face, Tony stroked his beard. Was it getting to bushy? It was like 70 percent gray now. He wasn’t getting any younger, that’s for sure. Should he just shave it?

The kid was still looking. Tony turned to the boy.

They stared at each other for a second.

“Can I help you?”

The kid said nothing as he went to the door, even though his large brown eyes kept locked on Tony’s. Before he exited the restroom, the kid spoke up. “Keep the beard,” was all he said as he slipped out.

Tony shrugged and hurried into the stall.

He was just about finished when his phone rang. It was Rhodey.

“Where are you?” The boss sounded grim.

“Uhm, on the throne?” Tony murmured. “You know, these hospital bathrooms are – ”

“The CCTV was bullshit, it never existed.”

Tony felt too warm and too cold at the same time. He barely to say “What?”

“You were right Tones,” Rhodey continued before hanging up, “They lied to us. Keep Karl safe, you hear?”

Something was wrong. The hospital floor was deserted when he left the bathroom. A heart monitor beeped faintly somewhere. The nurse’s desk was unmanned.

Tony shivered as he padded down the hallway. Something was definitely not right. He rounded the corner to Karl’s room and stopped.

A pair of legs sprawled out of Karl’s door.

“Vasily?” Tony shouted, springing down the short corridor. The door of Karl’s room was open, blocked by the corpse of the uniformed officer. Blood pooled out from his slashed throat.

“Fuck!”

Bile rose in Tony’s throat. He looked into the room and staggered, leaning against the doorway. The other uniformed officer slumped on his hair, blood dripping from a gaping hole in his neck. The nurse was sprawled near the bed, her neck and chest covered in stab wounds.

There was no sign of Vasily.

Something moved in the bed.

“Jesus fuck, Karl! SOMEBODY HELP!”

Tony ran into the room, nearly skidding on a pool of blood. Karl was thrashing in the bed, fingers curling around his neck. A long, vicious gash nearly touched both ears. The bed was awash with red.

Karl’s face was so pale.

Tony wasn’t aware he was screaming for Vasily, shouting for a doctor, as he tried to stanch the wound with his hands. It was so warm and sticky. Karl’s fingers feebly clutched at Tony’s. His face got paler and his eyes started to dim.

Tony could only whimper and yell as Karl died.

Something drop outside the room. He turned to see Vasily in the hall, eyes wide with horror, as he dropped the second can of soda he’d been holding. It opened and sprayed a different sticky substance on the hospital floor.

“Listen, Tony,” Rhodey said, “If they fire you, you damn make sure you drag me down, too.”

Karl’s blood caked Tony’s fingernails. The two of them were in an office in the hospital’s ground floor. Police lights flashed outside as they waited for Sitwell and Romanoff.

“They’re not gonna fire you,” Tony muttered. When he tried scraping the dried blood off with one fingernail, it just ended up caking that one.

Rhodey snorted. “They better, I’ve been begging for a chance to call Sitwell a dickweasel for years.”

“I’m the dickweasel. I should have asked for more officers.”

“Tony, you’re not a dickweasel. You had two armed officers. That should have been enough.” Rhodey put an arm around Tony’s shoulders. “You’re too good for this job anyway. You’re gonna do better after this.”

Sitwell entered the room, his face a thundercloud. If he had hair, they would have been standing on end from electricity. Romanoff was calm and cool, her face as blank as a fresh canvas.

“The boy’s brother picked him up,” Sitwell began, sitting down. He threw venomous glance at Tony. “You’ve made your statement. Glad you could accomplish that when you failed this job.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tony spat. Rhodey squeezed his shoulder in warning.

Sitwell continued. “From what I’ve gathered, you put civilian in danger, conducted an illegal interview, manipulated the witness do so, and just flat-out failed at your job.” A sneer crept on his stupid face. “All because you were trying to make things interesting for your boring desk job, which seems to be the most important thing – ”

Tony had had enough. “No! The most important thing is I was fucking right!”

“No, Stark, you weren’t right about anything because you put four people in the morgue because of your incompetence!”

Both of them were huffing and Romanoff had only raised an eyebrow.

She shifted in her seat and leaned forward. “What were you right about, Tony?”

Tony glanced briefly at Rhodey before speaking. “Karl described the killer as a young gay man, a twink.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Sitwell growled.

“Because I recorded him, you stupid prick, and had that Russian kid translate it for me.”

Sitwell looked like he’d been hit by a truck. “You’re fired.”

“You’re a dickweaseal,” Tony sneered.

Rhodey looked outraged. “Hey!”

“Thank you, Rhodes.”

Rhodey frowned at Sitwell in disgust. “I wanted to call you a dickweasel for years.”

Silence reigned in the small room.

“Clearly,” Romanoff began, “you’re going to have some job vacancies.”

Rhoder perked up. “So, am I fired?”

“Obviously,” Sitwell muttered.

Rhodey pumped his fist.

“Are you hungry?”

Tony nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been walking out of the hospital in a daze. Natasha Romanoff has seemingly materialized out of nowhere beside him. Her long legs matched his pace easily.

“There’s a great shawarma stand a few blocks from here,” he said carefully.

“Good, you’re starving.” It sounded like an order so Tony complied.

They walked in silence for a couple of minutes before Romanoff spoke up. “Married?”

“Uhm, yeah…a few years now.” Tony glanced at the agent. “How ‘bout you?”

She smiled a very small and decidedly cold smile. “Widowed a few times.”

They joined the short queue in front of the stand. The rich smells of roasting beef and lamb filled the street, along with the scent of garlic.

Tony shuffled about awkwardly before opening his mouth. “Look, it’s really weird that you’re telling me I’m hungry –”

“We think he’s been operating for two years across Europe and North America.”

Tony frowned. “Did you wait for me to talk so you can interrupt me dramatically?”

“Maybe,” Romanoff shrugged. “He’s deadly, highly trained, and his ego is starting to grow, so he’s starting to show off. Unfortunately, he’s untraceable at the moment.”

Tony could only gape there like a fish.

He _was_ right.

“When you’re feeling hungry next time,” Romanoff said, “I’d like to buy you breakfast at Delroy’s Diner. Thursday, at around 9 in the morning.” She straightened up and began to walk away. “I’ll wait ten minutes but I really do hope you’ll show up, Tony.” She was gone before he could react.

Tony bought three shawarmas and ate them there on the street.

**LONDON**

Peter crashed on top his bed, the jet lag playing hell on his body. If there was one bright side, it was the pure silk bedspread. He should have really thanked Don Greco for the tip.

The trip to the U.S. had been fun, but Bucky was going to lose his shit when he found out. Oh well, the boredom had been too great and playing with the officers had been fun.

Peter wiggled about on the silk bedspread, enjoying how smooth it felt. After a few seconds, the ennui began to sink in again. He sighed irritably and sat up.

At least there had been that one hell of a sexy man in the bathroom. Large, dark and intense eyes. Gray-flecked beard and hair. The whole foxy daddy package.

Peter bit his lip.

But he had been on the job. A real bummer when that happens. It wasn’t like meet-cute or anything.

Oh well. Peter’s hand lashed out and plucked a new postcard he’d found on his coffee table. He loved having a coffee table. How many seventeen-year olds had one of those?

He examined the card and ran his fingers on the glossy picture. Washington had been a lot of fun, hopefully Bulgaria would be, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not obvious, I'm not completely copying the show and just switching names. I'm still using their MCU personalities and merging it with some of the characters. Anyhoo, love all the love coming so far and hope you stay tuned. Am adding slow burn to the tags because if you've seen the show ya know its truer than true.


	4. Maroon and Burgundy

**BULGARIA**

Peter was wrong about Bulgaria. He hated everything about the job. He hated the disgusting puke-green office carpet. He hated the stale smell of the office. He hated the dull grey hoodie and _track pants_ he was wearing to blend in. And he hated the stupid, boring target stumbling along with blood pouring out his nose for making him go to fucking Bulgaria in the first place.

The target wobbled along the cubicles like a drunk, babbling in Bulgarian. Peter sighed and gracefully vaulted over the partitions, catching up to the target. The guy was cornered and whimpering. Probably because of the silenced pistol in Peter’s hands.

Peter was about to speak when he caught a whiff of something. Did…did someone microwave fish in the office? He hoped it was the target. There was special place in Hell for people who microwaved fish in the workplace.

The target babbled again. “I don’t speak Hungarian,” Peter said, head tilted.

“Please,” the target whined, “I’ll give you anything you want!”

“I want you to stop moving,” Peter said, enunciating clearly.

Ugh, people who are about to die are so unoriginal. It was always “Please don’t kill me!” and “I’ll give you anything you want.” Next the guy was probably going to tell him he had a family.

“Please! I have children!” Right on cue.

What Peter wasn’t expecting was the target throwing a fucking phone at his face. Not a cellphone, an actual, honest-to-god landline. There’s going to be a bruise on his _face._ That is _it_.

He shot twice, just over the man’s shoulder. The target squealed and fell over.

Peter dragged a rolling chair in front of the guy and examined him. Great, the target had pissed himself.

“Who…who sent you?” Snot was dribbling out the target’s nose. People about to die just leaked from everywhere.

Peter shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.” Idly, he rubbed the tip of his nose with the butt of the gun.

“Can you do something for me?” Peter said sweetly.

The target whimpered, eager to please.

“Say ‘Hermione.’”

“Herm…own…ninny,” the target mumbled. It was probably the broken nose or something. Still.

“Thank you,” said Peter and he shot the man twice in the heart. He leaned forward as the death rattle croaked out of the corpse.

The light drained out of the target’s eyes, fading into that peculiar glaze.

He sat back and spun around on the chair. That wasn’t as satisfying as he thought. It was boring. Boring and clean and by-the-book and _boring_.

And he was still in Bulgaria.

Peter groaned and spun the chair around some more.

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Tony adjusted his tie and stroked his beard before walking into Delroy’s Diner. Damn, he really should have shaved.

The restaurant was charming, in a dingy kind of way. Not at all the kind of place he’d expect someone like Natasha Romanoff to frequent. But there she was, sitting patiently at a table set for two with her eyes closed.

Tony was mildly impressed. Delroy’s did not look at all like the kind of restaurant that did place settings.

“Uhm...hello?”

Romanoff’s eyes snapped open, green and alert. “Tony, please take a seat.”

“So you come here often or –”

Romanoff raised a hand. “I’m not used to small talk, and I’m really not comfortable being on the receiving end of it. I’d rather just get on with it.” Tony shut his mouth and she nodded. “You do know that someone gets fired from the Bureau, their computer gets swept, right?”

Tony broke out into a cold sweat. What did they find? Oh God, he really shouldn’t have gone to that site at work but Sam had been insistent and they’d all had a good laugh.

Romanoff slid a black leather envelope across the table. Tony picked it up gingerly and opened it.

Inside, all the news articles and case files he’d been gathering for the past half year glared at him. Don Greco’s impaled face sat cheek-by-jowl with photos of other crime scenes and kills.

“Thank fuck,” Tony sighed in relief, “I thought you found all the photos of Sitwell we edited with bad haircuts.”

“We found those, too. I thought the one of Sitwell with Justin Bieber’s was quite hilarious,” Romanoff said, her face like a redheaded glacier. She shifted a little in her seat. “Did anyone ask you to compile those cases?”

“God, no. If they did, I’d have pulled a lot more information.”

Romanoff raised an eyebrow by a hair. “Did you show this to anyone?”

“Nope,” Tony said, shaking his head, “I mean, I tried to get people interested.”

Romanoff nodded. “You seem to know a lot about juvenile criminality.”

“Well, I used to study criminal psychology,” Tony shrugged, feeling slightly uneasy, “And I was kind of a bad seed back in the day. Not in the Macaulay Culkin kind of way…I mean him in ‘Bad Seed’ not ‘Home Alone’ but not that crazy?” He was babbling. Why wasn’t anyone stopping him? “But not like lame bad boy kind of way either. I wasn’t like Dennis the Menace, but like a teen middle-ground, I guess? I mean, I did get into like cocaine at one point –”

Mercifully, Romanoff raised her hand again. Tony shut his stupid mouth.

“Why did you compile these cases specifically?”

Tony took a deep breath to center himself. “I believe that there’s a teenaged assassin on the loose, operating around the world. I think he’s targeted several prominent people. He doesn’t have a signature I can detect but he has some style. And a lot of flair. I don’t know if he’s hired on a mercenary basis of if he’s working exclusively for someone, but he’s not slowing down and that really interests me.”

He paused and scowled. “But apparently I’m ‘nuts’ and ‘paranoid’ and honestly? I’m just so goddamn tired at this point. He’s outsmarting all of us, _including me_ , and for that I think the kid gets a pass to kill whoever he fucking likes.” He shrugged expansively. “I mean, if he’s not after me, then why the hell should I get involved any further?”

Romanoff smiled faintly and stood. “Come with me.”

“But you promised breakfast,” Tony muttered as his stomach rumbled.

The alley was dingy, even by Washington standards. Romanoff walked – stalked, actually – to a nondescript brick building. She paused at the building’s stoop. “I once saw a raccoon dragging along a potted plant right here,” she said, “I don’t know why, but it was just so…touching.” She unlocked the door and waved Tony inside.

The building was cramped and humid. Romanoff led the way up some stairs to another locked door. Behind that door was short corridor and another door with a keypad lock. She opened it and led Tony inside.

The first thing Tony noticed was the smell. It was like the room was secretly built out of used socks. Romanoff grimaced and shrugged apologetically.

The second thing was the corkboard. “What the hell is this?” Tony whispered.

Strings attached dozens of printed pages and photos to pins stuck on a world map. Graphs and charts and redacted documents also crowded around the map.

“Well,” Romanoff said as she pulled up a chair, “It’s your idea all over my office wall.”

Tony went for a closer look. There were files he hadn’t been able to access, files from foreign law enforcement, Interpol, even a heavily redacted _fax_ from the CIA. “Did you do this?”

“No,” Romanoff said, and Tony could feel that she was staring at him, “I have someone who has eyes everywhere.” She continued as he tried to take it all in. “No pattern that we know of. No trace we can find. And no one is claiming the kills. That’s what worries me the most.”

Tony turned to Romanoff. “Why aren’t you investigating this officially?”

Romanoff raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t try? There was a disturbing lack of enthusiasm and faith from the higher ups, which lead to a couple of theories.” She shrugged. “But I’ve got a very suspicious mind thanks to my mentor and now I have a discretionary budget. Consider this a pseudo-official tap on your shoulder, Tony.”

That should have alarmed Tony. But it only made him beam. “Can I ask what makes me so qualified?”

Romanoff frowned just the tiniest bit. “You’re very capable, extremely smart and not afraid to make crazy suggestions. And your research qualifications clearly speak for themselves.”

That felt good to hear.

The agent continued. “And you’re a middle-aged man who’s just been fired so no one really cares what you do anymore. No offense, but most people will think you’re a washed up white man.”

That felt less good to hear. But Romanoff wasn’t done talking.

“You’re not going to be paid much, mostly under the table. There’s no ranking or ladder to climb at all. And if this sad building isn’t enough of an indicator, you’re completely deniable.”

 _Now_ Tony felt alarmed. You didn’t associate complete deniability with the U.S. government and feel reassured. He should back away.

Tony turned to say so and there was Karl, staring at him from the board. He touched the photo delicately, with the same fingers that had tried so hard to keep the boy’s lifeblood in, to press the life back into his pale, pale face.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find him,” Romanoff huffed, slight exasperation tingeing her tone, “Someone’s paying him. And there must be a connection that we’re just not seeing yet. Someone’s weaving a web, we just need to find the spider. _Their_ spider, whoever they are.”

The door buzzed open and Tony nearly jumped out of his skin. The stocky man with sandy blond hair who’d opened the door also reeled a little. He was not much taller than Romanoff, with a lined face and light eyes. He was also wearing a virulently purple hoodie.

“Nat, you didn’t say we were expecting company,” the man grumbled good-naturedly. “We don’t usually bring people here,” the man said to Tony, “It smells like a gym locker.”

“Tony,” Romanoff said, voice as bland as beige, “This is Clint Barton. He’s my eye in the sky, so to speak. He’s quite the hacker and has access to just about everything on the internet.”

“I go by Hawkeye on the web,” Clint said, grinning at Tony.

“D’you earn that name or did you just watch too many ‘M*A*S*H*’ reruns?” Tony quipped before he could stop himself.

“I can find anyone, track anything, and hack into anywhere from a keyboard,” Clint replied, crossing his arms.

“He’s been gathering all of that,” Romanoff said, waving a hand at the wall. “I just need people to put it all together.”

Tony perked up. “People? Like, plural? I can hire my own team?”

Romanoff glanced around at the small room. “Maybe two or three. Do you have anyone in mind?”

“Yeah, but it’s gonna be a tight squeeze.”

**LONDON**

Peter strode towards the entrance of his apartment building, a paper bag full of comforting gravy fries in one hand. The bruise around his eye had turned a surprisingly attractive shade of magenta so he wore loose pants that matched, paired with a white button-up.

There was very fit young man rooting around the trash bins by the entrance.

Peter tried to walk past but dammit, he was just too hot for the guy to ignore. It was both a blessing and a curse.

“That’s one hell of a bruise,” the guy said, smiling. He was just a few inches taller than Peter, with black hair, delicate Asian eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass. He was also delightfully muscular in a lean way. The tank top he was wearing exposed toned arms and fitted to a sculpted chest and stomach.

“A door ran into me,” Peter replied, pausing by the entryway. “You’re American, too?”

“Yeah, from Brooklyn. Taking a gap year around Europe and all that.” He extended a hand before remembering where they’d been. “I’m Brad Davis.”

“What were you looking for?” Best to avoid introductions for now. Peter tried not to interact much with his neighbors, except for Mrs Bouchard. The old bat was just too hilarious.

“Oh, I haven’t seen one of my earpods for like a day and I thought they fell in the trash.”

Peter nodded and began to climb the stairs. “Maybe you should bend over and dig around the bottom of the bin,” he called, smiling. “You might not find the earpod, but I sure would appreciate the view.”

Brad laughed and yelled up at him. “This conversation’s not over yet!”

Bucky was in the corner full of gym equipment, setting down the heaviest set of weights with one hand.

“Hello there,” Peter said cheerfully, walking to the kitchen area. He had a gut feeling why Bucky was here. The handler joined him, face unreadable.

“You know,” he continued, setting down the carton of fries on the counter, “breaking into my apartment and working out isn’t intimidating _anyone_. It’s just weird.” He walked over to the fridge and took out a bottle of milk and a tub of strawberry ice cream.

“What makes you think I’m trying to intimidate you?” Bucky said, leaning on the counter. “What happened to your eye?”

“Magenta’s out this season but I’m a fashion rebel,” Peter answered, dumping a generous scoop of ice cream and half the milk in a blender. “You want a milkshake? I have crazy straws in a drawer somewhere.”

“No, I want you to get assessed. Again.”

Ugh. Assessed. Was it only a coincidence that it literally began with “ass”?

Bucky exhaled deeply and began to talk. “Washington was –”

Peter turned on the blender. The roar of the blades as they liquefied the ice cream echoed around the apartment.

Bucky glared at Peter.

Peter smiled sweetly at Bucky.

He turned off the blender and poured himself a glass. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”

“Washington was supposed to look like a suicide. Or even a medical mishap,” Bucky said, fingers tapping rapidly on the countertop.

“It didn’t?” How dare they question his methods!

Bucky gave him a flat look. “So the kid slashed open his own throat?”

“Accidents happen you know,” Peter sighed, taking a sip of the milkshake. He had gotten the combination just right.

“What about the police officers and the nurse? Accidental stabbings as well?”

Peter wiped away the milk moustache on his face. “It’s a terrible world we live in, Bucky.”

“Why are you misbehaving, Peter?”

He considered the question. “Well, I’m pretty excited for the next one.” Peter’s eyes darted to the post card just a few feet away on the counter. The picture on the front was of London, with the Eye and that building that was supposed to be MI6 headquarters in the James Bond movies.

Bucky’s hand lashed out just a split second before Peter’s. The handler pocketed the post card in his depressing parka. “You know how this works Peter,” he said, “no more targets until _after_ you’ve been assessed.”

“Awwwww, come one Bucky.” Peter put on his best puppy dog face. Wobbly lips? Check. Wide eyes? Check. “This one’s some kind of nerd. You _know_ I love the techy ones.”

“No.”

Peter sighed and dropped the puppy face. “Where’s the assessment going to be?”

“Somewhere in Belgravia.”

At least there was some good news. “I’ll dress up nice then.”

Zemo cleared his throat. “Thank you for meeting with me, Peter.”

Peter pretended not to understand and looked confusedly at Bucky.

His handler sighed and turned to the other man. “Only I’m allowed to call him Peter. You’re going to have to call him by his….” Bucky rolled his eyes, “…his _codename_.”

To his credit, Zemo only nodded. “Thank you for meeting with me, Spider-man. And for making such an effort.”

Peter grinned and adjusted his jacket. He was wearing a burgundy Zegna suit with black accents. This was also the first time he was wearing his gorgeous black Louboutins. Their vibrant red soles were unmarked. Perched on his nose were round glasses to give him a serious and “I’m stable enough to kill people” vibe.

Zemo took out a small notebook and consulted it. “What do you feel about your employers?”

Peter tilted his head. “They’re very private and I respect that.” He shot Bucky a sly look. The handler rolled his eyes again.

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about why they’re asking you to do these things?” Wow, Zemo meant business this time around.

Peter just shook his head. What was the point? He was getting paid tons, he had a sweet apartment, and he didn’t have to worry about stuff like the SATs or MCATs or whatever they call those white bubble test things.

Zemo jotted something down. “We’ve received a number of concerns. Particularly about your mental state.”

He tried to look outraged. Peter just envisioned faces in TV shows and copied the expression. He chose Annie Edison’s shocked face.

“Have you been feeling any undue stress? Or maybe anxiety?”

Peter considered for a moment. “I got a little constipated a few days back but that was probably halloumi fries.”

More note-taking. “When was the last job you took?”

Peter tried not to yawn. “Yesterday. I went to Bulgaria. It went off without a hitch. Put two bullets in his chest and watch the lights go bye-bye.” He was smiling by the time he finished the sentence.

“Did he say anything before that?”

“Yeah,” Peter said stretching a little, “The usual stuff. ‘I have children, boo-hoo, I’ll give you anything.’ Honestly, it was _super_ annoying.”

Zemo nodded again and took out two pictures. He presented the first one. It showed a man, slumped in an alleyway with multiple stab wounds on his chest. “What do you see here?”

“Great jawline,” Peter hummed. What? It went on for _days_.

Zemo showed the other picture. It was of a gray pit bull, with a long and fatal wound on its abdomen. “And this?”

Peter choked back a sob. His breath hitched. Bucky’s eyes widened slightly. Zemo looked worriedly at Bucky.

“I’m sorry,” Peter whispered, as he pressed a hand to his chest. Both men leaned forward.

And Peter made a farting noise. It was very good, nice and loud. Bucky sighed irritably, but looked relieved.

“He’s fine,” Zemo snorted as Peter laughed himself silly.

“Thank you,” Peter said and began to stand.

“Hold it,” Bucky said, “I have one more.” He handed Zemo a folded piece of paper. Peter slumped back down on the chair, glaring daggers at Bucky.

Zemo glanced at what was on the paper. “So…Peter. Are you still dreaming about Stephen?” He unfolded the sheet and presented it. On it was a pencil drawing of the barest suggestion of a head. What was solid was the hair. Delicate pencil lines and smudges depicted wavy black hair heavily streaked with white at the temples. A salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed, covered the chin and mouth. These were the only defining features of the spectral head.

The mirth disappeared on Peter’s face. His mouth went dry. He tried to speak but his voice caught in his throat. He had to swallow just to work up the moisture. His pulse pounded in his ears.

He tried to smile but he knew it was a miserable failure. Peter shifted in his seat. He could kill them both. His hands twitched but he clenched them and tucked them under his arms.

Peter forced himself to speak. “That’s not Stephen. That’s my dad.” Neither men looked like they bought it. “I’m joking. My dad fucked off before I was born.” He tired smiling again and he felt it looked marginally better. His pulse still thundered but the rage and the burning were receding.

“I see what you mean,” Zemo said to Bucky. “Thank you for your time, Spider-man, but I’m not signing you off.”

“What the fuck was that about?” Peter stomped along behind Bucky. He stepped so hard he left trails of red along behind him.

“Trust me kid,” Bucky replied, “I’m doing you a huge favour here. The security around the target is much tougher than what you’re used to.”

Peter dashed forward, blocking Bucky’s path. “But I’ve been working on the goober for weeks! And I’ve gotten the perfect outfit!”

Bucky chuckled and stepped around him, not slowing down. “Save it for something else, like your birthday.”

Peter hardened his tone. Time to play tough guy. “I want to do the job. Go and tell that prick to give me clearance.”

Bucky stopped and turned to face him. For a moment, Peter was actually afraid of the man. But it was just for a moment and he was going to deny that it ever happened.

“Do you like your life?” The handler walked forward and put an arm around Peter’s shoulder, “Your games? Your clothes? I’m only looking out for you, kid. You should be thankful you’ve got someone to do that.”

Peter looked up at Bucky. “But who looks after you, James?”

Bucky glanced for a second at his left hand.

Peter bit back a grin. He’d suspected it, but now he knew. He took his handler’s hands and clasped them, making them face each other. “I do.”

Bucky laughed. “Kid, you’re so full of shit, your eyes are brown.”

Peter hugged him. Bucky stood there awkwardly for a bit before returning the embrace. With one hand, Peter extracted the post card from Bucky’s pocket and tucked it into his sleeve.

Bucky chuckled and pulled away. “You know this make me even more worried, right?” He ruffled Peter’s hair. “Go home, Peter. And do something normal for a change.” He quickly strode away, disappearing into the London crowd.

Peter stood there for a little bit, smiling smugly. Oh, he was going to go home alright. And do something normal, too.

What was more normal than one person killing another?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a lot of cameos from the MCU but I'm not gonna put those on the tags. Peter's assessment attire are Tom Holland's clothes during the FFH premier. As suggested in the comments, I've assigned Clint to the role of Kenny! Fits nicely, he does. Love you guys lots!


	5. Dressed to Kill

**LONDON**

Peter pulled himself up the harnesses and hoops of his gymnastics equipment, ten feet above the floor of the apartment. The burn in his arms and back felt good after Zemo and Bucky’s betrayal. How fucking dare they tell him what he could and couldn’t do?

Well, technically that _was_ Bucky’s job, but still. Whatever happened to loyalty?

Growling in frustration, Peter somersaulted and leapt, landing nimbly on the floor with only the slightest thud.

Someone knocked on the door.

Bucky was the only person who came by and he never bothered to knock. Peter stalked silently to the kitchen and tucked a paring knife into the waistband of his workout pants. He adjusted his sweat-soaked sleeveless shirt and opened the door, one hand lightly gripping the knife’s handle.

“I’m not a paramedic,” Brad began, “but whenever I got a bruise, frozen peas were my go-to treatment.” He handed Peter a package of ice-packed legumes.

“Uhm, thanks?” Peter pressed the icy peas on his face. And, wow they did feel good. He leaned against the doorframe, very aware of Brad’s eyes roving his sweaty body. “Not the best excuse to start a conversation, but you get points for trying.”

Brad grinned unashamedly. “You got me there.” He rubbed the nape of his neck with one hand. “But also wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The nape-rubbing was too much. But still. Bucky did tell him to do something normal and Peter had a little excitement to burn away.

“You want to come inside?” Peter said, opening the door further. “I know something normal we can do for a couple of hours.”

“You’ve got to be cheating!” Brad cried as Peter’s Princess Peach smashed Link out of the screen for the third time.

Peter grinned. “Well, you should pay more attention to the screen then.” He was sprawled on his stomach in front of the massive flat screen TV, with Brad sitting on the floor beside him.

He was cheating, in a sense. Peter had showered and changed, opting to wear some very short electric blue shorts and a fresh undershirt. The fact that he also arched his back and wiggled a lot definitely helped.

Peter turned off the game and sat up. “You want a milkshake?” He didn’t wait for Brad’s answer before going to the kitchen area.

“Hey Peter, why is there a knife on your floor?”

“I was working on a goober,” Peter said, scooping ice cream and pouring milk into his blender. He added a banana for vitamins.

“What’s a goober?” Brad said, accepting the glass of frothy milkshake when Peter returned. He had sensibly placed the knife on the coffee table.

“Well, I’m really into like techy stuff,” Peter replied, sitting so close to Brad their knees touched. “And there’s this guy who’s in town this week and he’s the head of some huge tech company. And I thought that if I showed him something I made, this goober thingy, he’d be all impressed and like offer me an internship or something. It’s just…”

“Just what?” Brad said, putting a hand on Peter’s knee. Ugh, predictable.

“My brother doesn’t think I’m good enough,” Peter sighed before draining his milkshake, ignoring the brain freeze. The banana was an excellent addition, though.

“What? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

“Right?” Peter said, getting up and standing on the couch. “He still thinks I’m his baby brother but I’m not a little kid anymore,” he whined, bouncing on the cushions.

“So you know a lot about techy stuff?” Brad chuckled.

“Yeah, I went to this technical high school back in the States,” Peter said, climbing down.

“No way! I went to one, too, Midtown Science and Tech!” Brad said. “Which one did you go to?”

Shit. Well, Midtown was big school and Brad looked like he graduated way before Peter’s expulsion.

“You want to watch a movie?” Peter said as casually as possible. He leaned against Brad’s side.

“What kind of movies do you have?” The older boy put his arm around Peter. Thank fuck he was easy to distract.

“I actually like old movies with a lot of like practical effects,” Peter said, placing one hand on Brad’s toned stomach. “You know like ‘The Fly,’ and ‘The Thing.’”

“I’m not really that into horror stuff,” Brad murmured. “Got anything else you want to do?”

“Yes. I want you to fuck me. Hard.”

What Brad lacked in technique, he made up for with his dick. Not that Peter was paying much attention to it at that point at that point.

He was bored. The black pit had yawned opened somewhere after he’d deepthroated the groaning college boy. Now Brad was moaning all the requisite lines he’s probably picked up from porn. The “Oh God, you’re tight” and “You like that, baby?” Peter rolled his eyes as Brad’s hands gripped his hips, thrusting into him.

Alright, that was enough. Peter lashed out with his legs and twisted, flipping Brad on to his back. The college kid made a startled sound but Peter pinned Brad’s arms down and ground his hips. Brad groaned and tilted his head back in ecstasy.

“No,” Peter whispered, “look at me.” Brad complied, babbling something. “Shut up, and look me in the eye.”

“Oh – okay.” There was something in Brad’s eyes. Something like the spark of panic.

Peter rode him, raising his ass up and slamming it down quickly, his muscled legs straining. Peter kept his eyes firmly on Brad’s. He increased his pace, from mechanical to manic, feeling Brad’s cock sliding into him.

“Pleeease….fuck! You’re going too fast!”

Peter didn’t care. The spark of panic in Brad’s eyes was growing. He whipped his head back and forth. He bucked, his legs heaving, trying to dislodge Peter.

But Peter kept at it, saying nothing. Only the sound of their flesh colliding in such a frantic pace filled the apartment.

“Slo – Oh! Down! Please!” Brad tried to turn his head away but Peter wrapped a hand around his neck, making their eyes meet.

Peter raised his hips one more time and slammed down, grinding his hips as he did. He felt the orgasm shudder through the college boy and spurt into him.

Brad let out a long low breath, his chest slowing down. Peter tightened his grip on Brad’s throat. He leaned down, their faces only a foot apart, and stared into his eyes.

The panicked spark was dying, shrinking until it was gone.

But no. It wasn’t the same.

Not remotely. The black pit yawned.

Peter stood up abruptly, feeling Brad’s cum trickle down his leg. Whatever.

“Did…did you get there?” Brad said, catching his breath.

The fuck? What kind of question was that? It wasn’t as if Peter could fake that sort of thing.

“Uh yeah,” he said instead. “Hey, I gotta work on my goober. But that was tons of fun.”

“Oh sure.” Brad grabbed his clothes and slid into his pants. Peter ushered out the apartment, still naked.

Brad turned to look back. “I’ll bring over dinner later? Maybe we can watch one of those movies you like.”

“Sure thing.” Anything to get him out of the apartment. Brad grinned and headed down the stairs.

Mrs Bouchard popped her head out of her doorway. The old bat was grinning at Peter, who was entirely aware of his nakedness.

“Sounded like a demolition crew was in there,” the old lady purred in French, “Good work.”

Peter smiled. “I try.”

After a quick shower, Peter put on a robe, a heavy-duty gas mask, and industrial rubber gloves. The goober was on the coffee table. There was also a securely stoppered bottle inside a large glass jar and some long medical swabs.

The goober looked like the bastard child of an iPod mini and a FitBit. Which it was, technically. Peter had put it together himself, combining enough of the components to be unrecognizable at first glance. Then he’d stuffed the hybrid monstrosity inside one of those spy watch toys for kids who read too many Anthony Horowitz books. The result looked like a piece of functional but homemade technology.

Peter made sure his mask and gloves were secure before opening the jar’s lid. He carefully took out the stoppered bottle and delicately opened it. He dipped a medical swab into the bottle, keeping as far away from the liquid inside it as possible.

He swabbed the liquid of the goober’s clasp and underside. He also applied some on the strap. Once that was done, he stoppered the bottle and returned it into the jar. He placed the goober inside an empty wristwatch box.

Now, all he needed was to get dressed.

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Tony grinned when he saw Rhodey waiting outside the brick building.

“This looks super sketchy Tones,” his former boss said. “You sure this is the place? Cause it looks kind of like that place you used to do crack in.”

“Wait until you get inside,” Tony said, clapping Rhodey’s back. “It even smells like it. Minus the crack.”

“We’re not going inside?” Rhodey said when Tony lingered by the door. “You’re fucking with me, right?” he groaned when he saw Steve and Sam walking around the corner.

“You really thought they were going to say with Sitwell without us?” Tony said, chuckling. “Besides, all I had to tell Steve was ‘Natasha Romanoff.’”

Steve was carrying a take-out bag, a sure sign his husband was still out of town. But he was grinning like there was no tomorrow.

“Told you Rhodes would show up,” Sam told Tony when they reached the stoop.

“Just a warning,” Tony said before unlocking the door, “This is all super-secret shady stuff so –“

“Cause our last job was so casual,” Sam murmured.

“So be professional,” Tony finished.

Rhodey turned to Tony, incredulous. “You asked them first?”

“Hell, you weren’t kidding about the crack house smell,” Rhodey grimaced.

“Hey, guys focus on what I’m telling you instead of the pile of sweaty jockstraps Clint is keeping somewhere,” Tony sighed, standing by the corkboard.

“I’m only apologizing for the smell once,” Clint muttered from where he was perched on a desk, “And I actually prefer briefs.”

“Christian Broadchurch,” Tony said, pointing to a crime scene picture, “Found hanging inside a hotel bathroom in Utah.”

“What makes you think a teenager did that?” Rhodey asked, eyebrow raised.

Clint answered the question. “The hotel was fully booked all week for a Boy Scout event where Broadchurch was guest speaking. All adults and the staff have been thoroughly vetted. Nobody thought of investigating the boys.”

Rhodey nodded. Tony tried to ignore a slight twitch of irritation.

“Okay, next we have Felicite Chevin, a powerful lobbyist” Tony continued, “Stabbed once through the neck in her chateau in Cannes. She was hosting a birthday party for her teenaged son and all the guests were classmates or their parents.”

He looked around the board again. “But the most solid leads we have are from this kill in Italy and Karl’s statement.”

Steve raised a hand, because of course he did. “What’s the lead from Italy?”

“An Italian mobster was killed and his granddaughter says she’d been making out with this strange boy and then she hit her head or something and when she woke up, her grandpa was dead in the next room. No trace of her make out partner anywhere.”

Rhodey snorted. “So she was making out with a waiter or someone, that doesn’t mean the boy was the killer. He could have been spooked.”

“Yes but –”

“Did she or anyone else witness anything?” Rhodey’s eyebrow was still raised and Tony had the sudden urge to force it down, violently if need be.

“No –”

“Yeah,” Clint chimed in, “no one witnessed any of the other kills, too.”

“What about CCTV?” Steve suggested. “Hotels, private homes, some of them must have CCTVs.”

Clint shook his head. “CCTVs were either disabled or the kills happened in blindspots.”

“What about cellphone videos?” Sam piped up, “You got a bunch of teens in parties and hotels and shit, they’re gonna take lots of videos and pics.”

Clint shook his head again like a pessimistic bobble-head. “That’s a great idea, but you’re looking for a teenaged kid, whose face you don’t know, in picture full of teenaged kids. That’s like looking for an invisible needle in a pile of needles.”

“Fair enough,” Tony said, gritting his teeth, “But then we have Karl’s statement.”

“Dude, he described the killer as a young gay man,”Rhodey said, “That doesn’t mean teenager. Could be a twenty-year old.”

“What about forensics? And the hospital’s cameras?” Tony could feel his pulse rising.

“One partial print,” Clint said, pulling up a file on his computer, “No matches. And the cameras were operational, but they only had them at the entrances and reception.”

“Were there any witnesses to the hospital kill?” Now Rhodey was just sounding smug.

“No one else was around except the cops and the nurse, and they were all kind of murdered,” Steve said, unhelpfully.

Rhodey raised his hands. “So basically, you’ve got nothing to prove that these were all done by the same killer.”

“But –”

Rhodey wasn’t finished. “So you’ve got no solid connections, no discernible motives, and not even a signature or pattern.”

“Why don’t you want to believe me!?” Tony didn’t mean to shout but he wasn’t sorry. Clint was studiously browsing through his computer. Sam was wide-eyed. Steve was poking unenthusiastically at the contents of his take-out bag.

“Because ‘believe’ has no place in an investigation, Tones,” Rhodes retorted, “We need solid evidence and motive and something – ANYTHING – more than just a hunch. Otherwise, this is all just make-believe and suspicions.”

“If you need to say something, just fucking tell me,” Tony growled.

“You can’t lead an international investigation if all you have to go on is your gut,” Rhodey replied, flatly.

Tony needed to yell some more. But he also needed to take a piss. He tried to storm out of the room, but the keypad made him settle for a sulk.

In the dingy bathroom, Tony counted to ten and relieved himself. He washed his hands and leaned against the sink to inspect his reflection on the spotted mirror. God, he looked old. But he was feeling more alive in years.

Idly, Tony rubbed his beard. He’d forgotten to shave again and it was longer than he was…

Memory stirred. The hospital bathroom. Someone telling him something about his beard.

A young man. No. A teenaged boy?

There was something else. Something the nurse said when he’d introduce Vasily.

_“Oh lovely, another one.”_

He walked briskly back to the room. Three faces turned as one to look at him. “Clint,” he said, ignoring the Sam and Steve, “Can you pull up the hospital’s visitor’s log and get me pictures and verified identification for everyone on it?”

Clint hummed and nodded. “Yeah, but it’s gonna take me until tonight.” The hacker paused. “You didn’t run into anything…unpleasant in the bathroom did you?”

“Uh…no?”

Clint sighed in relief. “Thank God.”

“Tony, why the sudden the interest in the visitors?” Sam asked.

Tony wasn’t completely sure either but he needed to find that boy. “There was this…this young man I ran into in the hospital bathroom. He could have, I don’t know, seen something because he left the bathroom before I did.” He looked around. “Where’s Rhodey?”

Steve pointed at the door. “He left it in snit.”

“Hey!” Tony panted, catching up to Rhodey outside the building. “Can you tell me what the fuck that was about?”

Rhodey continued walking. “Tones, you’re my best friend, but you keep using your gut instead of that brain you’re so proud of.”

“So it’s got nothing to do with the fact that I’m in charge of _you_ after all these years?” Tony said, heatedly.

Rhodey sighed and stopped. “It’s got nothing to do with that.” He glanced at Tony and continued walking. “Okay, maybe a little bit. But you gotta understand Tones, you need to look at the bigger picture stuff like motives. Why are you focusing on the minion instead of the boss? Why is he so important?”

“He’s completely important!” Tony planted himself firmly in front of Rhodey. “Because we don’t know anything about that them at all. Listen,” he said, holding his best friend by the shoulders, “The FBI, Interpol and the CIA have no idea how these kills are related. That’s some scary shit!” He pulled back and saw Rhodey nod a little looking troubled.

“If we can’t find the motives, we can’t find the organization responsible,” Tony said, pacing in front of Rhodey. “No one is owning up to this kills. And if Romanoff’s sources can’t point a finger at anyone for any of these kills, it means whoever is orchestrating this is immensely powerful and completely invisible.”

Tony faced Rhodey. “The only way we can find them is if we can find _him_. They must have something on him. Or they’re paying him really well. Any clue, any information I find on him is taking one step closer to finding his bosses. That’s why this kid is the most important person to me right now.”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow. “So–”

“Uhm, Rhodey, can you not do that?” Tony interrupted.

“What do you mean?”

“Stop raising your eyebrow. Seriously, its making me want to punch your face.”

Rhodey complied, but his face twitched from the effort. “So what do we know about this kid? Clint says there’s no DNA, no prints, and no video.”

Tony thought about it. “Well, we can assume he’s young enough to pass for a high schooler, smart enough to disable electronics. He’s got to be fit _and_ able to speak a lot of languages.” Rhodey was nodding along now and Tony felt encouraged. “He likes showing off how clever he is. And he must have done something to put him on his employer’s radar. Like he must have killed before he got hired. A true sociopath.”

“There’s your lead then,” Rhodey said, “A teenaged boy who’s committed murder in the last few years.”

Tony smiled. “See? My gut _is_ as smart as my brain.” He looked around. They were in a completely different part of Washington. “Where were you even going?”

Rhodey shrugged and tuned back. “I fucking forgot already. Let’s head back, we got a lot of shit to do.”

Tony groaned and followed. “Clint’s looking into the hospital visitors, so get stated on the young murderers list with Steve.”

“What about Sam?”

“Remember when he worked overtime last month?” Tony said, grinning evilly, “He stayed too long and ran into Sitwell’s cronies?”

“Yeah, he got wrangled into going to Sitwell’s bowling tournament.” Rhodey stopped. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”

Tony chuckled. “Hey, I need all the information I can get about the CCTV from Vienna, and Sitwell’s got another tournament coming up.”

“Tones, there was no CCTV.”

“Yeah,” Tony answered darkly, “and I’m really want to know why Sitwell lied about it.”

**LONDON**

Peter lounged around the entrance of the Hammer Industries Expo, eyeing the groups of employees and guests. He was careful not to crease his outfit. He’d gone for a slight retro vibe: a suede jacket with a striped black-and-white shirt. His fitted black pants completed the look.

There was only token security at the entrance, docilely checking employee badges and guest passes. Why was Bucky so worried?

Peter spotted a perfect target. The guy was a Hammer employee, with his badge clipped on a belt loop.

It only took seconds for Peter to accidentally bump into the clueless guy and remove the badge. He waited for a particularly large batch of employees to enter and joined the crush. Security saw the Hammer logo and waved him through the entrance.

There were a ton of cool stuff on display, vendors and booths with all sorts of tech on display. If he hadn’t been on the job, Peter would have sampled some of them. Instead, he dawdled at some booths and collected a few things: a clipboard, a pen, and some loose forms. He touched the wristwatch box in his jacket pocket before going to the main hall.

Justin Hammer had taken the stage, doing some sort of cringe-worthy moonwalk-dance thingy. Peter stuck to the edge of the room and made his way to the backstage entrance. Hammer was going on and on about profit margins and new horizons.

There were two guards by the backstage entrance. Peter didn’t even have to say anything. He merely raised the clipboard and contrived to look haggard. No one stopped a busy looking person with a clipboard.

Once he was backstage, Peter ditched the props and made his way to the one place he knew Hammer would go to afterwards: the restroom.

There were a handful technicians and employees in it, but Peter safely ensconced himself in one stall. He could hear Hammer’s reedy voice through the walls. Crossing his legs on top of the bowl, he settled in to wait.

He thought about Bucky’s insistence about the security. Seriously, what could he have been worried about? The guys were clearly only one step above mall cops. At least mall cops checked bags.

No, there was something else worrying Bucky. He was going to find out what.

Enthusiastic applause filtered into the restroom. Peter took out the box, because people reacted poorly to someone reaching into their jackets, and waited. Sure enough, he heard footsteps and conversation outside before the restroom door opened.

Peter eased the stall door open and peeked. Justin Hammer was wearing steel gray suit and was busy pissing. He was a small man with a weasel’s face and demeanour. The faux-stylish glasses didn’t help.

Peter waited until the target was about to wash his hands before announcing his presence.

“Oh my God! You’re…You’re Justin Hammer!” Peter didn’t have to pretend excitement, although he did put on a London accent.

“Yeah, you an intern here or something?” Hammer said, washing his hands.

Peter positioned himself in front of the restroom door. “Yes, and I never thought I was ever going to meet you face to face! This is such an honor!” He made sure he was holding the wristwatch box prominently.

”Well thanks for that,” the target said, smiling. God, what a tool. “Hey, what you got in the box, kid?”

Peter pretended to look surprised and embarrassed. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. Uhm, I was sort of working on something for the company? I read all about how you started the company yourself and it really inspired me to, uh, try my hand at making something.” He offered the target the box.

“What is it, kid?” Hammer opened the box and looked at the goober.

“It’s uh, like a biometric tracker?” Peter invented, “For like military purposes? So it like transmits stuff like pulse rate and location and stress levels, so you can like easily track soldiers.”

“That’s pretty impressive.” Hammer was looking at the goober. He began to hand the box back.

“Would you like to try it?” Peter said. “It would mean so much to me if you could give me your input.”

“All right,” the target said, beaming with pride. He took out the goober and put it on his wrist, fingers fumbling with the clasp.

Peter couldn’t help but grin delightedly. “So, how does it, uh, feel, Mr Hammer?”

The target turned his wrist this way and that. “Well, for starters, you should definitely…” Hammer closed his eyes and swallowed. He staggered and planted a hand on the sink.

“Are you okay, Mr Hammer?” Peter approached, ducking his head to look at the target’s eyes.

“Uhm…I…I can’t…fee…feel,” Hammer mumbled. The toxin was paralyzing his body rapidly. Even the target’s lips and tongues were uncooperative by now.

Peter reached out and caught Hammer by the lapels just as the toxin caused the target to collapse.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Peter said sweetly, “This is probably the second most exciting thing I’ve ever done in a restroom.” He lowered the shuddering man to the floor.

Hammer’s lips were blue, a thin white froth leaking from between his clenched teeth. His eyes were wide; he was unable to close his eyes.

The spark, the panic, the fear, they were burning in Hammer’s eyes.

Peter leaned close and removed the target’s glasses so he could see the spark drain. Hammer shuddered one last time, his pupils blown wide with fright.

Finally, the life drained out of the target’s eyes. Peter shuddered and exhaled, unparalleled pleasure shivering up his spine. He had to lean on the wall for a few seconds, head spinning from the rush.

When he was more composed, Peter snapped Hammer’s glasses and used it to remove the goober from the corpse’s wrist and put it back in the box.

He picked up Hammer’s other arm and wiggled it. “Bye-bye!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your comments are magnificent! Thank you so much for the love! Peter's outfit for the kill is this one: [ X ](https://tomandlorenzo.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/06/Zendaya-Jake-Gyllenhaal-Tom-Holland-Spider-Man-Far-From-Home-London-Photocall-Fashion-Tom-Lorenzo-Site-11.jpg).


	6. Familiar Faces

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Tony despised bowling alleys. He’d read once that the holes on bowling balls were some of the most unsanitary things you could stick your fingers in. So long as he didn’t touch the disgusting things, he figured he’d be okay. But the bowling alley Sitwell and his cronies favoured was unsanitary in general.

“Oh no,” Steve groaned, “They’re wearing _team shirts_.” Tony shifted his gaze to where his companion was looking and winced. Sitwell had made Sam wear the hideous neon green shirts they were all sporting.

Sam spotted them and pointed at the dingy bar at the rear of the establishment. Tony and Steve made their way to it as Sam cajoled Sitwell to join them. Their former boss’s face hardened when he saw the two of them.

“Hey guys, didn’t know you came by here!” Sam said, a pained smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Sitwell said acidly, “I believe Stark said this place has more streptococcus than it has bowling pins.”

“Tony just wanted to apologize for how he quit,” Steve said, patting Sitwell on the shoulder, “Tell you what, we’ll buy your entire team’s next round.”

Tony glared at Steve but nodded curtly. “I’m sorry for calling you…a dickweasel,” he muttered to Sitwell.

“Guess you’re as bad at apologies as you were at your _former_ job,” Sitwell sniped, “But free beer is free beer, so apology accepted.” Steve nodded amiably and began giving their order to the bartender.

“So, Sitwell…Jasper,” Tony began, one hand clenched behind his back, “I just wanted to ask about the CCTV.”

The bald dickweasel raised an eyebrow. “What CCTV?”

“From the Vienna assassination,” Tony said slowly, “You said there was CCTV footage from outside the restaurant?”

Sitwell shot Sam a scornful glance. “You set me up? Are you even interested in joining the Jaspares?’”

“Yeaaah,” Sam said, “I didn’t really say I was going to join? Sorry, I thought my tone like implied that already. I’m not really into bowling. Like, _at all_.”

“Why call yourselves the Ja _spares_?” Steve wondered, totally unhelpful, “I mean, are you shooting for average here? Why not something like Strike?”

“Point is,” Tony interrupted, “You said there was CCTV. Can you tell us more about it?”

Sitwell stiffened. “I don’t have to tell you anything. You’re not FBI anymore.”

“Look, just like what time was it? What did the suspect look like? Who –”

“Fuck, enough!” Sitwell growled, “There was no CCTV!”

The three of them stared at the dickweasel.

“I was just fucking _sick_ of you,” Sitwell continued, looking venomously at Tony, “Always blurting out your stupid theories and snide jokes, just because you’re doddering off to retirement with nothing but your wife’s frigid c-”

Tony punched Sitwell in the face.

“You did _what_?”

“I punched him in the face,” Tony repeated, “Forgot how bad that shit hurts your knuckles. It’s been a long time since I punched someone.”

Pepper laughed and pressed an ice pack on his bruised hand. “Well, thank you for defending my honour,” she murmured and kissed him. Tony hummed appreciatively.

Pepper broke off their kiss and went to the kitchen. “You’re looking…more chipper lately,” she called, “Should I be hiring a PI? I there another woman?”

Tony waited for her to return. Pepper was carrying two glasses of wine and he gladly took one, putting aside the ice pack. “Actually, it’s this new job.” He took a fortifying gulp of red. “Romanoff hired me to track down the assassin.”

Pepper blinked and sat next to him. “Is…is it safe? I mean why you?”

Tony bristled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. Makes me feel _super_ adequate.”

“Tony, you know that’s not what I meant,” his wife sighed, “I mean why are _you_ doing this?”

“Because he’s killing people, Pep,” he said irritably, “And when I find him, I could stop that!”

“Are you sure that’s what this is really about?” Pepper said quietly, “And it’s not an ego thing?”

Tony set down his glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, putting on his shoes and sliding into his coat.

“Where are you going?”

“The office…building…headquarters,” Tony muttered as he swiped his keys from a nearby table. “I’m gonna find the son of a bitch. Don’t wait up.”

**LONDON**

Peter’s pulse had just stopped pounding when he entered his apartment. He was dead-tired, which was lots better than just simply dead. Like Hammer. Even the thought sent a delightful shiver up his spine. He dropped the shopping bag with his clothes and the goober’s box by the door.

A hand tightened around his throat in a vicious grip and threw him across the room.

Peter did the best he could to soften the landing but every bone in his body jarred when he hit the floor.

Bucky’s face was livid, his eyes burning, as he advanced on Peter. He plucked Peter up by the collar with one hand and slammed him against a wall. “I’m cutting your allowance, you little shit,” he growled.

Despite the fact that he was half a foot from the floor, Peter mustered a smirk. “That’s not a good idea,” he croaked.

“Hey, I brought – who are you?”

Bucky dropped Peter before Brad fully entered the apartment. Peter hurried to Brad, who was lugging some take-out bags.

“This is my brother,” he explained to the confused college boy, “He dropped by to catch up.”

“Oh, I’m Brad,” the simpleton said, extending a hand, “I’m Peter’s…friend.” He glanced at Peter’s discarded bag. “Everything okay, you guys seem a little winded?”

“Of course, just brothers horsing around.” Bucky gave Brad a small smile and ignored the hand.

“Uhm, I just wanted to talk to Peter about this…device he wanted to show to someone,” Brad said, awkwardly.

Bucky looked at Peter. “He told you about that? What else have you been talking about?”

“Do you think you can give me and my bro a few minutes to talk?” Peter piped up, “Bucky, why don’t you wait on the sofa?” The handler shrugged and stalked off.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Brad drawing Peter nearer the door and out of sight of the living room area.

“Yeah,” Peter answered, smiling. “Just keep the food warm for me and I’ll come by in a few, okay?”

Brad still looked concerned but nodded. He looked down again at the bag Peter dropped. The goober’s box had slid out. “Is that the thingy?”

Peter chuckled. “Yes, that’s the goober.” He glanced behind him. “Look, Bucky’s waiting. I’ll go to you in a bit, alright?”

Brad smiled and, hesitating, planted a quick kiss on Peter’s cheek.

Gross. Peter grimaced but plastered a smile when Brad stepped back.

“I’ll see you later!” he said before rushing to Bucky.

His handler was sitting stock still when he turned the corner. “That boy is a problem,” Bucky muttered, “You need to deal with him soon.”

“But he’s got such a nice dick,” Peter whined, sitting right next to Bucky. He waited for a few moments before speaking again. “Why did you lie to me? Hammer’s security was like super shitty.”

“Well yes, that was a little lie,” Bucky shrugged, “But I was just looking out for –”

Peter’s hand shot out, gripping a knife he’d stashed in the sofa in case of emergencies. He pressed blade against Bucky’s throat.

His handler moved quickly, too. A black bowie knife slid out from his sleeve.

“Okay, we can fight,” Peter said indulgently, “But you’re so slow and you’ll get tired. And I’ll get bored.” His smile became sharper than either blade. “You know how creative I can get when I’m bored.”

Bucky grinned. “So dramatic.”

Peter gave a small laugh and pressed the knife a little more. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. “A man in Washington is leading a small taskforce just to find you.”

“Really?” Peter couldn’t help it. A wide grin spread on his face. He pulled back his hand and tucked the knife back into its hidden sheath.

“Stop smiling,” Bucky scowled, “That’s not a good thing.”

Peter stretched out on the sofa, shoving his feet on Bucky’s lap. “What do the guys upstairs know about this team?”

Bucky gently pushed Peter’s feet away. “Quite a bit, actually. But we’re still working on finding out what exactly they know.”

“So who’s the man leading this taskforce?” Peter asked, all innocence.

“Why do you want to know?” Bucky had a piercing stare, but it was useless on Peter.

“Just curious.”

“A former FBI employee named Anthony Stark,” Bucky supplied.

“Anthony Stark.” The name rolled off of Peter’s tongue.

Bucky leaned across the sofa and put a hand on Peter’s cheek. “He’s the reason I want you to be careful. You need to lay low. Be discreet. And always be aware.”

Peter pouted. “I’m always –”

A loud thud from near the door made them both look. Gripping their knives, the two of them advanced to the entrance.

Brad’s leg twitched once as Peter and Bucky looked on. A thin layer of foam coated his mouth and chin. Wrapped around his wrist was the goober.

To Peter’s disappointment, the light had already gone.

Peter shrugged. “Well, that’s a freebie.”

Bucky sighed, pulled out his phone, and called the cleaners.

After the cleaning team and Bucky left with Brad’s corpse, Peter climbed up to his bedroom-loft and sprawled on his mattress. He turned on his second laptop and opened the Web browser.

He typed two words into the search bar: Anthony Stark.

There were a lot of unrelated pictures, people who couldn’t possibly be the same guy, and stupid ads. He kept scrolling until one image caught his eye.

It was from a community newsletter about some teacher’s after-school music program. The image was grainy, but there was a familiar face in the crowded photo.

Peter’s heart began to beat faster. There was a man, one arm wrapped around the waist of a tall red-headed woman. He zoomed in on the man’s face.

_“Can I help you?”_

It was him. The man from the hospital bathroom.

Peter pushed the laptop away but the man’s face stared back at him from the screen.

The black hair sexily going gray. The neatly trimmed beard and moustache. The large, dark eyes full of alertness. The crooked smile.

His breath became ragged. Peter felt his cheeks burn. Was he _blushing_? Heat pulsed down his body and made his toes curl. He licked his lips.

He had been _seen_.

Peter had never felt more alive.

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

The smelly office was lit only by the streetlights outside and the monitor of Tony’s computer. Clint had done an excellent job. The hacker had neatly compiled all the visitors who had logged into the hospital and found a variety of online accounts to verify their identities.

Tony winced every time he moved the mouse, his bruised knuckles sending tiny sparks of pain up his arm. He was halfway through the list and so far none of the visitors were the teenaged boy he’d seen from the restroom. After ten minutes, he’d gone through the entire list.

And no sign of the boy.

The boy…

_“Keep the beard.”_

There could have been a myriad reasons why a teenager didn’t register as a guest. He could have forgotten. He could have been part of a bigger group and his parents or somebody else signed in for them.

But Tony could feel it, whatever it was.

A teenaged boy who had probably introduced himself as Karl’s relative, if the nurse’s comment was worth anything.

A teenaged boy on the same floor minutes just before the slaughter. A teenaged boy with intense brown eyes and a lean strength in his posture.

Tony’s mouth went dry. His hands clenched and he didn’t even notice the pain from his knuckles. He rubbed a hand on his mouth, feeling his beard scratch against his palm. 

The door beeped open and Rhodey slipped inside.

“Fight with Pepper?” Rhodey sat down beside Tony.

“Yeah,” Tony said, sitting back.

His best friend clapped him on the shoulder, the classic masculine expression of commiseration. “So, is there any good news? Any leads on the assassin?”

Tony turned to look at Rhodey, a small but manic grin on his face. He hadn’t felt this alive in years.

“I’ve met him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much for reading, all of you! A note on updates: I plan on adding a chapter roughly once every 6 or seven days. I can't promise a more fixed schedule due to some of my other responsibilities. But needless to say I will give plenty of warning of an update is gonna come late.
> 
> Love you guys lots!


	7. Playing Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE:
> 
> This fic is based on a very violent show and will continue to describe assassinations and other forms of violence. If you are uncomfortable with graphic descriptions of torture and murder, please do not read.

**WASHINGTON, D.C.**

Tony licked his lips before beginning.

“He’s got rich, chocolate brown hair. Slightly wavy, maybe even curly if he didn’t style it? He’s not slim like a twig, he’s…leanly muscled, like a gymnast. He looks anywhere between seventeen and twenty years old.”

Tony ran a hand over his mouth and caught himself. He forced his hand down on the table.

“He’s got a very…open face? His features are a mixture of sharp and delicate and warm at the same time. His eyes were large and like rum, very deer-like and there was a small notch on his eyebrow that gave him this very…very endearing look.”

Tony exhaled and drummed his fingers on the table top.

“He has a generous mouth with thin lips, but they have a permanent pout, like he’s always just about to smile or say something. His cheekbones are high and sharp, which sort of nicely contrasts with his other features.”

Tony closed his eyes, picturing the young assassin.

“His skin was clear and very creamy. Not pale, but flushed with that…that summer glow all teenaged boy have. You know what I mean? Like they’re always living in the summer.”

Tony opened his eyes.

“He radiates…he just _exudes_ youth, you know? And a sort of weaponized innocence. An openness that’s somehow both comforting and intimidating.”

The facial reconstruction expert cleared his throat. “That’s all very nice, very poetic, but can you tell me anything more useful? Like does he have a square head or more like a rectangular head?”

Tony turned to see Rhodey and Sam looking at him with raised eyebrows.

  


**BERLIN**

Peter examined his reflection on the massive mirror hanging over the canopy bed.

His black wig was cut in a stylish bob that reminded him of that movie with the weird French girl. The red and gold corset nicely accentuated his lean torso and perfectly framed his collarbones. The red frilly panties clung to his groin in just the right way, not too tight as to appear shrink-wrapped and not too loose as to appear sloppy.

If there was one problem, it was the scarlet stockings. Their lacy fringe tickled his inner thigh. And he could have been more careful with how he’d applied his makeup. Served him right for skipping a lot of the YouTube tutorial. Still, it wasn’t every day that he had an opportunity to cross-dress.

But the target was a regular at the 1920s-themed brothel, which happily specialized in fem-twinks. Peter had leapt at the opportunity. The look on the saleslady’s face when Peter admitted the stockings and corset were for him was almost as good as watching a dying spark.

Peter pulled himself up and checked if the little box he left on the make-up table was still there. It was and so were the strong silk ropes he’d attached to each of the canopy’s supports. He relaxed, arranging his legs to look more vulnerable. And to showcase the curve of his ass.

The art-deco door opened and a massive Chinese man entered the room. His size wasn’t all fat, but indicated a formerly athletic man gone to seed.

Peter smiled lazily at the target. “Get on the bed, big boy,” he said in Mandarin.

The target gleefully complied, shedding his coat and suit. He was in the right age range for Peter to be slightly interested but a job was a job. He climbed over Peter.

Peter wrapped his stocking-clad legs around the target’s hips and pivoted, switching their positions. The man half-chuckled and half-moaned.

“Do you like penetrating or getting penetrated?” Peter whispered, running his fingers up the target’s arms. He gripped the target’s wrist and with the other hand restrained it with one of the ropes.

“I…I like getting penetrated,” the target admitted, wriggling his girth under Peter.

“Oh, then it’s your lucky day,” Peter smiled, restraining the target’s other arm, stretching him.

“What are you doing?” The target was more deliciously intrigued than terrified, but that would come later.

“It’s a surprise,” Peter said in his best sultry voice. He tied down the target’s ankles before getting off the bed and walking to the make-up table, making sure to wiggle his ass with each step.

The target groaned in delight…And screamed in fright when Peter removed the period-appropriate derringer from the box.

“What are you doing?! Let me go!” The target babbled in Mandarin. The spark was burning in his eyes.

Peter smiled. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he said sweetly, “You like getting penetrated, remember?” He fired the gun’s single bullet at the mirror hanging over the bed.

The cascade of shards impaled the target’s massive body. One jagged piece took him right in the throat.

Peter stalked forward and leaned down, looking at the target’s face. Blood burbled from the target’s mouth as the spark drained away.

Peter bit his lip hard enough to draw blood when the spark flickered away.

  


**WASHINTON, D.C.**

“When did we buy the vegan yogurt?” Tony called out, examining the plastic container he’d just pulled from the fridge. His stomach was growling and neither he nor Pepper could cook anything.

“Uhm, five days ago?” Pepper said, walking into kitchen as she put on her earrings. “So about this new job,” she said, pouring coffee from the pot into a travel mug, “Is it like a nine-to-five?”

“Sort of, I guess,” Tony mumbled, setting the yogurt down and reaching for the fruit bowl, “I’ll make you a yogurt smoothie for breakfast.”

“Thanks.” Pepper touched his shoulder. “Is it safe?”

“Yeah, you may be on to something. I’m gonna sniff it first.”

Pepper chuckled and cupped his cheek. “I meant about the job, Tony. Is the job safe?”

Tony took her hand and kissed the wrist. “It’s about us safe as the smoothie I’m gonna make you.”

“You mean you need to sniff it first before you can give men an answer?” Pepper laughed.

“No!” Tony said, pulling her closer. Pepper always smelled amazing and he nuzzled her neck, breathing deeply. “I mean that the worse that could happen is I get food poisoning and Sam mocks me through the bathroom door.”

“You know,” Pepper murmured, “it was getting romantic until you brought up violent diarrhoea.”

“I love it when you say that,” Tony growled, “Say it again.”

Pepper pressed her lips to his ear. “Diarrhoea.”

They ended up giggling like kids for five minutes.

  


“So this corporate douchebag,” Rhodey said to Tony as they walked to the discrete brick building, “What makes you think our littlest assassin is behind his death?”

Tony shifted his hold on all of the team’s coffee orders before answering. “Eyewitness say there was a college kid or an intern who entered bathroom a few minutes before he did and backstage guards remembered that some busy kid they didn’t bother to check entered a few minutes before that.”

“Looks like you’re gonna get a gold star from the teacher,” Rhodey sniggered.

“Yeah, Steve’s going to be so jealous.”

  


“We already know about the Hammer kill,” Romanoff said before delicately sipping her green tea. “Steve and Sam already put it up on the board.”

Tony looked crossly at Steve, who smiled at him smugly and fistbumped Sam.

Romanoff nodded at Steve. “Tell him about the latest kill.”

“The kill was a Chinese colonel visiting Berlin,” Steve began, referring to a sheaf of paper Clint offered. “The victim was in a…in a…” He looked desperately at Clint.

“In a sex club/brothel,” the hacker supplied.

“Yup,” Steve said with relief, “One of the uh…uhm…”

“Cross-dressing male hookers,” Clint said, rising to the occasion once more.

“How are you married to man and still be this uncomfortable discussing sex?” Sam wondered.

“Shut up,” Steve sniped, “Anyway, the male hooker is the main suspect for the kill. He was a young man posing as a substitute for the victim’s favourite. He gave a name to the person in charge.”

Everyone except Rhodey and Tony looked at Romanoff.

The hairs on the back of Tony’s neck bristled. “What was the name?”

Romanoff set down her green tea. “He signed in as Anthony Stark.”

  


Tony walked up and down the steps of the stoop. Romanoff watched him impassively from the top step.

The assassin knew his name. _His name_. What else did the psychopath know? Did he know about Pepper? His hands were shaking and his feet were sweating. _His feet_.

“Do you vape?” Natasha said, matter-of-factly.

Tony paused and looked at the Special Agent. The woman had extracted a thin vape pen from her pocket and was looking at him with one eyebrow raised.

God, he hated that look. Why can’t people ever keep their eyebrows down.

“Uhm no,” Tony said, resuming his walking, “I think it’s pretentious.”

Romanoff shrugged and took a puff. “This one tastes like wintermelon. Amazing.”

“Are you going to take me off the team?” Tony said in a rush.

“There is no team,” Romanoff said, exhaling a thin plume of vapour that did smell deliciously of wintermelon. “So I can’t take you off it.”

“So I can stay?”

Romanoff shrugged and puffed away. “What happens next is entirely up to you. How did that song from _Stranger Things_ go? ‘Should I stay or should I go?’” She turned her piercing green eyes on Tony. “Which is it going to be Tony?”

  


“I’m going to Berlin,” Tony told the team, “Rhodey, do you still have contacts there from your air force days?”

Rhodey considered. “I’ll have to check, but I think I still have a few contacts who’ve moved to government positions over the years.”

“I can go with you,” Steve piped up, “I know a lot of German.”

“You just don’t want to be home alone again,” Sam chuckled.

Steve ignored the jibe and focused on Tony. “Last I remembered, Rhodey hasn’t spoken German in years and you don’t speak it at all.”

“I’m staying here,” Sam said grudgingly, “in this office that smells like butts.”

“And I’m going to be right here with you, bud,” Clint said supportively.

“I won’t,” Romanoff said unhelpfully, “I have a much nicer smelling office in Quantico.”

  


“You’re not going to lose this one, too, right?” Pepper leaned against the bedroom doorway, watching Tony shove his clothes into her hot pink Samsonite.

Tony rolled his eyes and made sure to pack his good underwear. “So I lost two –”

“Four.”

“Four of your suitcases.” He paused and looked at her. “Really, four? I’ve lost four suitcases?”

Pepper nodded. “ _My_ suitcases. Make sure to put a tag on that.” She approached him and put an arm around his shoulders. “What are you going to do in Berlin?”

“Steve, Rhodey and I are gonna look at a corpse in a kinky brothel.”

“Sounds sexy, should I be jealous?”

Tony stopped packing to hold Pepper in his arms. “Everything’s going to be fine, I promise,” he said, before kissing her.

Pepper pulled away almost immediately. “I know what you’re promises are worth, Tony.”

There was really nothing he could say to that. But he did keep one promise: he neatly printed his name and their address on a securely attached suitcase tag.

  


**BERLIN**

“I should be on my honeymoon,” the tourist murmured as Peter pushed him against the wall of his hotel room. Technically speaking, Peter should have been back in London already, but the temptation to stake out the crime scene and see if Anthony Stark showed up was too great.

Plus, Peter had found this charming, middle-aged man who had a passing resemblance to Stark while on stake-out. The beard was probably his sexiest feature.

The tourist began to remove his coat but Peter shoved his arms down before nibbling on his bearded jawline. “Keep your clothes on for now,” he said, grinding their hips together and making the newly-wed groan.

“I’m going to call you Anthony,” he whispered, trailing a finger along the tourist’s stubbled chin.

“Oh, uhm okay, should I call you like Cleopatra or something?”

Oh no. Ugh. Instead of saying those things, Peter chuckled and shut him up with a kiss. He would have felt sorry for the poor guy’s wife but feeling sorry wasn’t really his thing.

Just as the man began to unbutton Peter’s shirt, the young assassin pulled back. “Now, I’m going to leave a trail of my clothes and you’re going to try to find me.”

As Peter dropped his shirt in the hall of his massive hotel suite, a spike of pure pleasure drove through him.

Anthony Stark was going to come to Berlin. He was sure of that. And what delicious games he and Peter were going to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So S1 Ep3 is probs my FAVORITE episode of Killing Eve because its the real start of their game of cat and mouse and also for the nightclub scene. That being said, I'm adding some more tags as the story progresses. Dont wanna ruin some spoilers. Thank you all for your kind words and continued appreciation!
> 
> NGL, crossdressing Peter Parker has been one of my fantasies ever since the Umbrella Incident.


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